Rating: General (Fluff, Public Cuddling, Inner Circle Reaction)
Summary: You are too tired to care about the "no public affection" rule. Surprisingly, Azriel doesn't mind either.
The unwritten rule between you was simple: behind closed doors, Azriel was yours, and you were his. But out here, in the sprawling sitting room of the River House, amidst the chaotic banter of the Inner Circle, there was a boundary.
Azriel wasn’t a man of public affection. He was the Shadowsinger. He stood apart, observed, and kept his walls high. You respected that. You understood that his shadows needed space and that his stoicism was armor, not a lack of love. Usually, sitting on the opposite end of the couch or simply exchanging a knowing glance across the room was enough.
But today had been brutal.
Your bones felt like lead. A headache throbbed behind your temples, a dull, rhythmic reminder of the grueling training session with Cassian and hours spent poring over logistics with Amren.
You were sitting on the plush velvet sofa, trying to listen to Feyre and Mor laugh about something happening at the studio, but the sound felt distant. Across the room, Azriel occupied his usual solitary armchair near the hearth. He had one leg crossed over the other, his face unreadable as he listened to Rhysand discuss a border patrol report. His shadows were quiet, lazily curling around the wings of the chair.
You looked at him. Just looked.
You missed him. It was a physical ache, sharper than the soreness in your muscles. You didn't want to talk. You didn't want to be the polite, composed partner sitting three feet away. You wanted home. And right now, home was the solid, silent warmth of the male in that armchair.
Before your brain could remind you of the "no PDA" agreement, your body moved.
You stood up. The room was loud—Cassian was shouting something about a bet he’d won—so no one immediately noticed you crossing the Persian rug.
Azriel noticed, of course. His hazel eyes flicked to you the moment you shifted your weight. He watched you approach, his expression neutral, likely expecting you to ask for a drink or tell him you were heading to bed.
You didn't speak. You reached his chair and, without a single hesitation, you sat down.
You didn't perch on the armrest. You didn't sit at his feet. You sat directly across his lap.
The movement was clumsy with exhaustion. You settled sideways, your hips resting on his thighs, your legs dangling over the side of his leg. It was an intrusion, a breach of his personal space that would have made anyone else lose a hand.
Azriel went rigid.
Beneath you, you felt every muscle in his body lock up. His shadows flared instantly, spiking in surprise, creating a sudden, dark halo around the chair. The conversation in the room cut off as if severed by a blade.
The silence was deafening. You knew Cassian’s jaw had probably hit the floor. You knew Rhys was probably grinning like a chaotic feline.
But you didn't care.
You let out a long, shaky breath and collapsed against him. You dropped your head onto his shoulder, your cheek pressing against the rough, familiar texture of his leathers. Your arm draped lazily over his other shoulder, looping around the back of his neck to anchor yourself.
You inhaled deeply.
He smelled like mist, cold stone, and cedar. It was the cleanest, most grounding scent in the world.
"Y/N," Azriel’s voice was a low rumble in his chest, vibrating against your ribs. It was a warning tone, tight with self-consciousness. He was painfully aware of the five other people staring at him.
"I'm tired, Az," you mumbled against his neck, your eyes fluttering shut. "Just... let me be here for a minute."
You felt him hesitate. His hands were hovering in the air, unsure whether to push you away to maintain his reputation or to give in. His stillness was absolute. He was a statue, terrified that moving would either encourage you or hurt you.
Then, you felt the change.
It started with his shadows. They stopped spiking and softened, rushing over your tired limbs like cool, heavy velvet, shielding you from the prying eyes of the others.
Then, his body relaxed. The stone-hard tension left his thighs.
One of his large, scarred hands came to rest tentatively on your waist. The other moved up, his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of your neck. He didn't push you away. He pulled you closer.
You sighed, the sound vibrating through the silence of the room.
Across the room, Cassian opened his mouth to make a undoubtedly crude joke.
Azriel didn't even look up. He simply stared at the Illyrian General with a gaze so dark and lethal that Cassian snapped his mouth shut with an audible click.
Azriel rested his chin on the top of your head. He held you there, in the middle of the room, openly claiming you, openly comforting you.
"Sleep," he whispered, his voice for your ears alone. "I’ve got you."
And for the first time all day, you finally let go.
synopsis: there is no doubt that mr. geto is an exceptional dancer, and a kind instructor. you have no doubt, either, that the perverse, voracious need you have for him is unrequited. of course, he calls you little dove and watches you dance low-lidded and teases you with innuendo, but surely he doesn't mean it...right?
pairing: ballet instructor!geto x ballerina!reader
a/n: it's been so long since i've posted a full length fic! i'm sorry and i love you all and please open your holes to me so i may place this fic there
18+! mdni <3
masterlist
~~~~~~~
mr. geto is nothing like the instructors you despised as a teen.
you can remember walking to your car after your first lesson with him and pressing your forefinger to the tender crest of your ear, marvelling at the lack of ringing there. you were used to shrill yelling, to the echo of it against the mirror and back again, to higher and stretch and reach bellowed into your bones.
but mr. geto, it seems, is exceptionally thoughtful about how his sound carries, speaking only as loud as necessary to be heard by the furthest dancer from him. the register of his voice makes the floor thrum and your knees twitch and he seems to notice these things, take stock of them, adjust.
he does not use his hands, either.
all other ballet instructors at your company use their fingers to adjust the body, to create the proper lines. you are completely familiar with fingertips in the crease of your knee, along the slope of your navicular, down your spine: it is not uncomfortable, not anymore, and it is in service of this art you have devoted your life to. you don’t mind. and in the dead of night when your duvet feels heavy over your waist and thighs you think that you wouldn’t mind, in particular, if he used his fingers to adjust your body.
but he simply…doesn’t. he uses the shapes of himself, his own arms and torso, the extension of his own legs, to compose his requests of his dancers. higher, stretch, reach, he murmurs to the group of you, extending himself into position and showing you.
and a part of you likes that a great deal; there is no sense of injustice with him, no upset that he is asking something of you that he cannot himself achieve. you and the rest of the dancers watch as his twists and bows, displaying himself to guide through the moves, and it’s such a striking thing to behold that you can’t bring yourself to mind.
still, his beauty is the hardest part of being his student. the cording of his muscles, the sleek ink of his hair, the lithe curvature of his movements, it’s torturous. all at once you want to dance as he does, want to make your audience feel as he makes you feel, want him to shed himself of all professionalism and touch you somewhere irrevocable. you feel terrible and silly wanting it, wanting him, but there’s no helping it, you think.
and anyway, you insist that this wanting you indulge in in the dark isn’t dangerous. there is no oxygen for it in the studio, nothing to nurture your fantasies, and so you have to believe that they will wither and die with time.
of course, while you tie the ribbons of your pointe shoes around your ankles in the empty studio, you pray this fantasy death will happen sooner rather than later. it’s completely exhausting to be so constantly wondering what his cock feels like, and mr. geto likes to remind you that exhausted is no state to dance in.
you love arriving to the studio early like this. before the room is overtaken with the smell of sweat and resin, you can breathe in the marley flooring and stretch your legs wide, grateful. you seek out lonely moments to appreciate how rare it is that you’ve succeeded in ballet enough to make a living from it; you close your eyes and get overdramatically philosophical, and it’s a privilege. you love it.
and yes, fine, it secures mr. geto’s first five minutes in the studio for yourself. this cannot be helping your attempt to suffocate your wanting, you know, but then he’s walking through the door draped in fine linen and hair pulled messy to the crown of his head, and you go boneless.
“good morning, dove,” he calls over his shoulder, turned away from you as he sets his things down.
you don’t remember when he started calling you that, and you don’t know if he uses it with other dancers, but god how can you blame yourself for getting sticky for him when he addresses you that way?
“good morning, mr. geto,” you call back, trying to sound lazy with the dawn as you continue stretching. you watch your fingers splayed on the floor, the borders of each vinyl panel, anything other than his strides towards his seat at the front of the room.
he plops rather unceremoniously down, legs spread slightly and head tipped back as he groans something truly criminal. you can feel something hot and biting between your legs but you try to ignore it, looking up at him.
“exhausted is no state to dance in,” you say with a smile.
he does not lift his head—you wonder if he wants to cause you pain by forcing you to watch the curved tilt of his throat and jaw—but you can see from the movement of his cheeks that he is smiling a little.
“i’m not dancing, dove, you are.”
you roll onto your back and starfish out, sufficiently limber. “what sort of terror will rain down on us today?”
he does look down at you then, lip still curved enough to look like a smirk, and when his head tilts just slightly you die a little death. “terror? i’m never terrible, i know i’m not.” his fingers make a soft sound against his thigh as he taps on it mindlessly. “you’ll like the combos today.”
you can’t help but bark a little laugh. “you don’t mean that. that’s something you only say when they’re hard.”
a chuckle pushes out through his nose. “yes, i know.” and then, matter-of-factly, he adds, “you like it hard.”
and god you try not to draw attention to the innuendo in that comment. just as he says it the doors are pushed open with a low thunk and the rest of the dancers come filtering in, and so you have every possible opportunity to be normal and professional and not silly and terrible, but you are a silly and terrible woman, so your chest stutters on your next breath. and he watches.
you choose to believe, for your health and happiness, that he still couldn’t quite discern what your reaction was, or why it would have happened. but you cannot deny the fleeting scent of smugness on him, or the way his jaw twitches when his eyes flit to you between greeting your colleagues.
he must be, you decide as you come to take your place at the barre, a cruel and unusual man who has recognized your unrequited lust and wants to punish you for it.
yes, that must be it, you assure yourself.
the rest of class is excruciating. all the typical torment of watching the man whose bones you are so desperate to jump contort himself into beautiful shapes is mounted further by the way he watched you this morning, the way his head dropped to the side just so to see you fluster for a moment.
you try to channel it into the combos. as you travel across the room, you work to carve the feeling from your chest and toss it outwards, anywhere else. your legs burn with your leaping and turning but you push harder, hoping you’ll reach some critical point at which the physical soreness of your muscles eclipses the fluttering behind your navel, but you can’t quite catch it. and every time you hope you might be close, you feel your fingertips just grazing a moment of forgetting, you catch his eye again, and something hungry pulses in your stomach.
you probably need to get fucked. you definitely need to get fucked, actually, because you’ll ruin all your leotards if this continues.
sweat shines down your body by the time class is finally, mercifully over, and the plan has already solidified then. you’ll go out tonight, you’ll get well and sufficiently railed, and at long last you will be able to address your fucking ballet instructor properly.
even collecting your bag from the floor makes your muscles scream. your steps drag as you shuffle about, removing your pointe shoes and slinging your purse over your shoulder in the waning light of the day.
“was that your attempt at proving me wrong?”
you straighten, inhaling sharply. when you look over your shoulder, it’s only you and mr. geto in the studio again. he’s standing in the threshold now, body leaned against the door as he watches you finish packing.
fuck.
normally you might relish this sort of attention from him, but at this point you feel overfilled with the smoke of your desperation and you need to breathe. you need to go to the club and release some of this pent up sexual energy. you need to get out before you spread your legs for him in front of the fucking mirror.
you try to laugh lightly, but it sounds tired and reedy. “yeah, i guess not.” shrugging a little, you add, “couldn’t help it.” and you tried to use that tone of voice one uses when a conversation is over, for the first time since meeting him hoping he simply turns and leaves, but he stays static there, watching you.
you flounder, looking for anything else to say. you want to lighten the tension that’s pulling your hips towards him, so you put on a wry smile. “i’ll try less tomorrow.”
that makes him chuckle as he brings a hand up to massage one shoulder. inevitably you think of how it might feel under your fingers, how it might tense if you were riding him and he was using that arm to lift and drop you on his—
“i do have one note for you, actually,” he murmurs, and you try to mask the horror on your face as he begins walking towards you. “show me your grand adage from the last combo.”
you hesitate a moment, clutching your purse tightly with one arm and opening your diaphragm so he doesn’t see your lungs constrict. this is normal, you remind yourself, he is being a normal instructor.
and it’s true, this is normal, but he has abnormal sex appeal and you are abnormally tightly wound and and he has never adjusted you with his hands before. this is a terrible, horrible, grotesque idea, but what are you supposed to say? no?
you drop your things slowly at your feet, tracking the sweeping of his eyes along your movements. with your hands empty again you stand still a moment, surely looking as bewildered as you feel, but he nods slightly: go ahead.
you steady the soft tremble of your fingers as you extend your arms outwards, aligning your spine as your leg extends behind you. your core engages to keep your hips from tilting upwards, chin high to create a sloping line from your neck and down your torso. even though you do not—cannot—look mr. geto in the eyes you can feel him watching, your muscles twitch when he assesses them, fluttering like little birds under your skin.
“yes, that’s it,” he says, low, behind his teeth. he begins to walk around you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was trying to make you feel predated.
two things happen at once. you realize—and the weight of it nearly buckles your knees and takes you through the floor of the studio—that he is not going to show you want he wants by doing it at precisely the moment one long finger brushes the under side of your thigh. there isn’t even anything promiscuous about where he grazes the fingerpad, but nevertheless you feel like an open wound, a nerve, only barely restraining a full body shudder at the feeling. what the fuck is he doing?
“you can lift this higher.”
you’re almost thankful that you scoff on instinct; it makes you sound less affected by this than you are. “i’m—i’m trying, but–”
and then you really do shudder, hot and tacky from the nexus of your legs as his hand grips your thigh in full, pulling it a centimeter higher and watching your body absorb the movement to balance. your breaths puff sharp and you can’t even attempt to stop them now.
his voice is no louder than a whisper but there’s no breath in it, all timbre and sound. “there, dove. hold that.” his hand pulls away torturously slow, and at such an angle that you feel the point of each fingertip as his palm falls away. you hope he’s spontaneously blinded so he can’t see the goosebumps erupting down your arms, but instead he leans an inch closer to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, watching you strain to keep the position from just behind your shoulder.
“it makes it harder if you hold your breath.” you can hear the twitch of his lips in that and it makes it no easier for you to take in air, but you pull a trembling gulp of air in anyways. to please him, you suppose, because apparently that’s all you’re capable of doing.
he hums in approval, “that’s good enough, dove, thank you.”
and no sooner do the words leave his lips are you dropping your leg and fleeing out the door, only barely remembering your bag.
~~~~~~~
you’re learning that your desperation for your ballet instructor is an exceptionally powerful tool.
earlier today, you pushed your body beyond its limit in the name of exorcising yourself of the curse of him. you were an outward force then, expanding and swelling and trying to expel the dark sweetness between your thighs.
now, haunting the neon shadows of this club in your highest, most painful heels, you think your desperation has a scent. you can’t remember ever being looked at in this way; from across the dance floor and behind the bar and in a far away corner, you catch men’s glances, all of them wolfish and interested. they can tell you need to be fucked, immediately.
you select the largest specimen you can find; a hulking mountain of a creature with a scar down one side of his mouth. he’s not quite handsome in the way suguru is handsome, it’s a louder, more insistent sort of attractiveness, but nonetheless you eye fuck him until he approaches you, knowing his weight will feel nice enough from behind.
he grabs at your side when he arrives in front of you, sliding a paw down your lower back. “come dance with me,” he rasps into your ear, and while normally you’d ask for the decency of exchanging names, tonight you’re sold.
you laugh as he tugs you into the fray, a throng of bodies pressed close and tacky with sweat. there’s a strange relief as he settles behind you, strobes flaring in your vision and his thick fingers around your waist. you can already feel how this ends, something sloppy and vaguely grotesque but you don’t even mind, you’re so coiled and greedy for this man you cannot have.
the music pulls you together and he grinds with you in time with it, pulling your ass against his jeans and twisting your hips back and forth.
he runs his nose down the slope of your neck, feeling how pliant your limbs move for him. “you’re flexible, huh?”
with your head tilted back against his shoulder he brings one hand slowly up the front of your body, grasping loosely at your neck. you grin and nod into it, letting your eyes go hazy as you look up at the rigged lights and the rising fog.
you’re fucking soaked. you really would just like it if he’d bully his cock into you here in the middle of the dance floor so you can finally think straight, and you’re considering pulling him into the bathroom to do something truly indefensible against the dirty basin of a sink, but you feel his tendons tense around your throat and it makes you tilt your chin back down on instinct.
into your ear he asks, almost amused by what he’s seeing, “d’you know him?”
your heart sinks.
whatever buoy you had wrestled between your arms was dissolving back into salt water, you’re slipping, you’re frantic, you’re looking across the dance floor and fucking suguru geto is there.
his hair is down and silky over his shoulders, which pull a white t shirt taut across the planes of his chest. you can see, even from here, the shadows of lean muscle, his body’s capacity for dance. the sleeves of his shirt are short enough that you can see, for the first time, the head of a snake tattoo peeking just below the hem.
fuck.
and no wonder your enormous dance partner figured you knew each other; the way he’s looking at you is lethal, a sharp slice of a stare from across the room, a pointed watching. his lips twitch when he sees you notice him, something conspiratorial and entirely his own there. it looks as though he’s holding a live animal in his mouth, sly and coy and biting down on a moving thing behind his tongue. a single, sinewy hand lifts from his side and he waves.
fuck fuck fuck.
in a fleeting out-of-body event, you can appreciate the hilarity of this moment. it pulls a sound from your throat, almost a laugh, almost a scoff, too, and you stumble slightly out of the hold of the man behind you. “i—well, yeah, actually.” you have no idea what look you’re wearing, but when you turn to face your dance partner, it makes him chuckle under his breath.
“you uh,” he scratches at his scar with his thumb, “you wanna go over there?”
he’s teasing you—this much is obvious to you—and so much of you is desperate to tell him no, i’d like to stay right here, and grip to the veins of his forearms and let him take you home. but then you think of mr. geto’s hands along your thigh as he adjusted it and it’s almost like he has you between his fingers again, towing you towards him.
“i–i’m sorry, i just think i should go and–” you gesticulate behind you, vaguely, reaching for something dignified to say, “and say hi.” a failure of the highest order.
the man in front of you laughs again, deep and from his stomach this time. he’s already tilting his body away from you, already letting you go, already sensing that the smell of your pussy was meant for the long-haired figure a few feet away. “you go right ahead, ma,” you think if he wasn’t so huge a person, his laughing would sound like giggling, “i’ll be fine.”
the sight of him slipping away from you makes you nauseous. you’re watching your own failure, all six feet and four inches of him, dissipating again into the sea of people, already under the manicured fingers of other women who aren’t waiting to arch for someone who essentially equates to their boss.
but there’s something secret and sweet to watching him go, too. standing resigned on the dance floor, accepting whatever honeyed trap fate has set for you, you can unburden yourself from this taxing process of trying so hard not to embarrass yourself. yes, you think, i will simply embarrass myself, and maybe whatever follows won’t feel so excruciatingly painful.
geto watches you carefully as you slink to his table. he keeps the muscles in his face slack, neutral enough to obscure the meaning from his expression, but the faint pull of his jaw reminds you of this morning, of after class. despite yourself, you align your body properly as you take the six odd steps to stand at his feet, extending your legs the way you know he’d want in the light of day.
he smells like musk and something botanical when you get close enough. you hope you don’t smell like your own slick.
“it was sort of deja vu, watching that,” he begins. even under the beating of the music he refuses to shout, voice unfurling from behind his lips and just barely reaching your ears.
you wrinkle your nose a little. “how do you mean?”
the ice in his drink chimes with a flick of his wrist. “watching you dance.”
you tilt your head back and forth, feigning some sort of consideration. “no, i think this might be different.”
he’s smiling enough now that you can almost see his teeth. the part of you that is desperate to be cautious screeches that he’s playing with you, he doesn’t want you, but with each tip of your skull you can feel that voice liquifying. you hope it slips out your ear.
“how so?” he asks.
you do your best to keep a straight face. “well, for one, i don’t want your notes.”
he looks almost joyful to spit this back at you: “oh i have a few, actually.”
your laugh is too breathy and real to truly hear it against the ambient noise of the room, but he tracks it anyway, swishes his ice again. “you’re unqualified, unfortunately. this type of dancing isn’t your expertise, mr. geto—”
“suguru,” he interjects. “suguru here.”
your thighs twitch, almost stinging with need now, but you steady yourself with a breath, humming, “okay, suguru, this type of dancing isn’t your expertise. i only accept edits from experts.”
“i might surprise you, dove.”
you run your tongue along the front of your teeth. he’s asking you to play, you think, and so you raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin the way he does when he wants you to begin.
“well,” he takes a fraction of a step towards you and you match it backwards, pushed by the heat of him and the smell of his cologne, “i think you moved a little too quickly.”
you’re moving entirely in tandem now, him forward and you back, all the way until your head bumps a wall. cornered like this, he eclipses almost your entire line of sight, a vignette of dark hair.
“the part when you tilt your head back here,” and he gestures to his shoulder, “that’s the best part. you fell straight into it.”
something shudders up your legs and you squeeze them together, desperate for a moment of anything against the swelling button between them.
“they need to wait longer for it. makes it better.”
his smirk is slowly fading, something more intimate making space for itself across his mouth. if he recognizes the irony of this, he doesn’t show it, demanding simply: “show me.”
you have half a mind to gape at him, at what he’s offering, but instead you turn—stupid, whorish thing—as he asked, pressing yourself slowly to him. when your ass bumps against his pelvis he groans low. he’s rock hard against you, and a gasp moves up your windpipe but he has his free hand on your chin first, forcing your head back to his shoulder.
contorted like this, his nose grazes your cheek, his breath filtered into your ear. you whine, feline and soft, and he hums in return.
“yeah, it’s good, huh?” and he ruts his hips slightly into yours to emphasize his point, nosing your cheekbone. “so you have to start somewhere else.”
the hand on your chin falls away, moving to the small of your back where it bends back for him. he pushes his thumb to your spine, and then the rest of his palm, bending you forward at the waist. your hands come up to brace on the wall and you let your forehead fall there, too, letting the cool concrete tether you to whatever sanity you have left.
he exhales like veneered restraint watching you tilt, feeling the extra push of your thighs against his cock twitching in his pants. “yes, dove, like that.” he grinds against you in earnest then, dragging the clothed shaft of him over the globes of your ass. “he should work for it a little.”
he pushes again and you moan fully. it leaps from the wall to his ears and it earns you another drag, his fingers bruising against your waist.
“and then,” his composure is dwindling, you can hear it, and he ruts again, “once he’s worked up,” he drags the hand at your hip up your side, around your front, between your breasts to arch you back to him again. your back bows taut and impossible to meet him, head falling immediately to his shoulder this time, eyes squeezed shut. you wonder if your slick is running down your legs now, or if it’s still pooled in your panties. he finishes into your ear, “then you come up here.”
you wiggle your hips against him, needy, and he grunts. “what did he say to you?” he grits out.
your capacity to think is low, practically panting like he’s already inside you. “huh?”
“when he had you here, he said something that made you laugh, i wanna know what it was.” with his hand fanned across your stomach he can pull you tight against his thrusts.
“h-he, he said i—fuck suguru, i-”
“come on, little dove,” he coos.
your eyes flutter open to find him watching you, purple eyes skidding across your skin. “he said i was flexible,” you huff.
he smiles like he’s going to eat you. “oh yeah? and did you tell him it’s because your mr. geto stretches you?”
your fists bunch and pull against the wall. you’re certain he can feel you clenching through your dress. your mr. geto, jesus. “n-no,” you breathe.
“oh, that cuts deep, dove,” he tuts, but he fucks against your ass again anyway, “i work so hard to stretch you open and you’re not giving me credit?”
you find yourself with the fleeting and miraculous wherewithal to laugh, light and towards the ceiling. “i’ll tell him next time, then.”
that makes suguru laugh, too, the both of you almost manic with the truly absurd suggestion that you would ever be touched by anyone else.
you feel very suddenly like a stray dog at his doorstep, scrap-fed by his hand, bony and waiting for something warm to be tossed out again. the fear that he doesn’t mean this the way you’re taking it, that he wants you only briefly, chokes you still.
“are you drunk?” you ask him.
he lets you feel the frenetic pattern of his breathing against your neck. “no.”
and then even smaller, you can’t help it: “are you messing with me?”
slowly, he brings the hand with his drink up, extending his forefinger out around your front. it’s cold from the glass as it taps on your chin once, twice, and then drags down the line of your throat. “no.”
and you aren’t quite sure how you would describe what you feel move through him then, a trembling sort of shake, maybe, but as it buzzes through his hips he thrusts the momentum up into you. later, you would come to realize this was the sensation of him, at last, deciding something he could not take back.
“i think you left something with me at the studio today,” he murmurs. the electricity of knowing you did not leave something at the studio takes hold of your ribs and tugs. “you left in such a rush.”
“i think you know that’s you’re fault, suguru.”
he smiles small into the side of your face. “yes, i know.” a finger brushes under the swell of your breast. “i can drive you there to come get it.”
you’re beginning to squirm in his hold now, the beastly thing between your thighs drooling in full, usurping control of your limbs. “haven’t you been drinking?”
and suguru is all too pleased to bring his glass to your lips, tipping it slowly onto your tongue.
he’s drinking fucking sparkling water.
he isn’t even tipsy.
you’re nodding before you can even gulp enough air to say yes.
~~~~~~~
you barely make it out of his car before he’s on you. pressed against the passenger door, he kisses you like he wants to reach inside and pull out a rib. it’s teeth and tongue and your mewls in his mouth, and it makes him pull one leg up around his hip to grind slow against your clothed pussy.
he strokes his tongue along yours as he guides you to the front door, bucking into you when you bite down soft on his bottom lip.
“fuck,” he pants. “get inside.”
seeing the studio at night is strange. the moonlight glints off the mirror, bathing the room in silver streaks. stranger still is hearing geto come in behind you, locking the door with a low snick.
he passes behind you like a memory, stepping just to graze your back and shoulder before pulling away and towards his usual seat at the mirror. “stand center floor for me, dove,” he instructs.
your body moves without much thought. it’s so easy to do as he says here, to pervert the habit of following his directions as you stand at the center of the vinyl.
suguru runs a hand across his jaw, over his lips, watching you stand static as asked. you know how lust blown your eyes are already because you can see the black depth of them in the mirror behind his head. “stretch for me,” he sighs.
a strange confidence feeds and swells in your belly, something alight and excited as you bend at the waist. your movements are no more salacious than they normally are, simple contortions to warm your hips and thighs, but you slow them enough to match the moment. your dress, too, heightens it; the hem teases the curve of your ass, your swollen mound, tight against you in ways your dance clothes aren’t. geto has sharpened the air to a fine point, and you teeter on it.
your head flips over, legs softly bent and then straight again, swishing open and closed. between each movement you glance up at him, swallowing thick at the shadow behind the tent in his jeans, the clench of his fist as it approaches his length. when you open your legs past second position and bend to stretch between them, he moans, unashamed, and you can tell from the lilt of pain in it that he’s stroking himself over his pants now. your pussy nearly opens in this position, faced away from him, and you feel the fever say his name.
“your middle split now, dove,” he grips himself like he means to strangle, tipping his head back against the mirror to watch you over the bridge of his nose, adding, “please.”
with your hands splayed on the floor, you drop simply into it. when your clit bumps the cool flooring you whine in your throat, settling your weight. suguru is stroking himself in earnest over the denim when you peer up at him. “uh huh,” he pants, “and bend the knees now, just a little.”
your knees cant up and you tuck your tailbone, forcing your dress to ruck up around your hips and display, fully, the wet mess of your panties. the suffocated whine suguru sounds punches the air from your lungs, and you lean back onto your elbows behind you, looking to breathe, looking to survive for another moment.
you wish you could have a picture of the two of you this way; you entirely on display for him—and for yourself, too, as you cannot avoid your own reflection beside him—and your unflappably composed instructor, squeezing down the veins of his cock through the rough pull of his jeans, watching. and because you spend hours every day being directed by him, you know what he will ask you next before he even voices it, but you wait to hear it anyway.
“touch yourself for me.”
your fingers fly to your clit, drawing slow circles around, crossing over to feel yourself jolt. your hole pulses and spits, and suguru growls like he can see it from halfway across the room. the utter relief of friction, fucking finally, makes you tip your head back, moaning wild into the still air.
but then you hear his lips part to say something and you’re pulling your head back straight, still circling over your clit and then your entrance, meaningless patterns over your thong that make your toes curl in your heels.
“you know i never once—ngh, fuck—had the urge to adjust a student with my hands? i always hated that when i was in class,” he grits. with trembling hands, he begins to unbutton himself, pulling his cock out and tugging on it immediately.
god, he’s pretty. long and soft and leaning the way the rest of him leans, gliding between his fingers with the pearls of pre beading at his tip.
“but i thought that if i,” he pauses to groan with you, “if i touched you once i could fucking forget about it.”
you speed your fingers with each word he says, each stroke of his hand over all eight inches of his cock. a far away voice registers that you’re whining, too, but your mind filters it away, tuned completely to suguru’s confession in the dark.
your smile is wry, and reveals as much as anything. “did it work?”
he laughs then, almost at you. “no, you know what dove, it didn’t really—hah—didn’t really work for me.”
your hips buck into your fingers, a buzzing coil now. “suguru,” you begin, but he doesn’t need to hear any more.
“i know,” he moans.
you have transcended his direction, you think, merged into him enough to comply without listening. he’s tearing his shirt and pants off as frantically as you tug your dress up and over your shoulders, and you’ve only barely shimmied your panties down your legs when he arrives in front of you, completely bare. you think suguru geto, tacky with sweat and need and cock nearly swollen purple, has achieved his own pinnacle, descending to his knees to meet you.
and there’s an ephemeral, fleeting moment, when you both simply watch each other in all the places you’ve kept obscured for so long. his eyes circle over your tits, the pert peaks of your nipples, the gleaming of your slit. you track the snake tattoo from the bulge of his shoulder and around his back, pupils flitting between him and his reflection.
suguru takes hold of both your ankles on each side of his narrows hips, squeezing once, and then gliding them up, up, around your knee, along the inside of your thighs. it dawns on you that he knows exactly where to press, where each muscle begins and ends, because of how much he watches you flex and extend. your breathing comes labored and round, small yips and whines when goosebumps push into his fingers.
he can’t help but tug your hips towards his bobbing cock when his hands arrive there. you squirm and twist to try and sink him inside but he holds you to the floor, jaw tight.
“not yet, dove, i need to stretch you,” he grunts.
and you’re giggling before you can stop it. “you use a lot of double entendre, is that on purpose?”
he’s smiling now, too, but more than anything you think its a wicked joy with how your mouth drops open as he circles two fingers around your entrance. your arousal is so hot and so everywhere that you think you can hear it dripping onto the marley.
“keep your legs open.” he uses the tone of voice he employs during class and it only makes you gush more, but you do as he asks, tightening your outer thighs to hold yourself spread as he pushes two fingers inside.
“oh fuck,” you pant.
it seems to affect him in equal measure, cock twitching with each pull of his digits, lips parted ever so slightly. he scissors his fingers apart and back again, feeling along the inside of your walls, looking.
“ah—yeah, yes, there,” you mewl, and he moans something sincere in turn. the pads of his fingers brush and swish along that spot and something behind your ribs is turning over, growing teeth. you whine out a small fuck and that’s it: suguru is gone.
in a single motion, he pulls his fingers from you, breathes in your protest of a whine, and lowers his hips to run the ruddy tip of his cock over your clit, down, down. you run your nose along his forearm as he braces them on each side of your head, feeling the brush of his hair along your shoulder.
his mouth parts directly over your ear like this, and you feel his hand squeeze your left thigh. “lift this for me.”
and as you extend it up to hook over his shoulder, legs spread in almost a full split below his hold, he notches his head inside, a lewd pop that echos up your spine and between your ears.
suguru’s head drops to your shoulder as he bares his teeth. “fuuuuuuck jesus christ.”
you’re no better, winding your right leg around his left and bucking your hips to slide him home. he indulges you this time—perhaps for the first time since meeting him—and cants his hips again. you’re so fucking wet and ready and open for him that he slides to the hilt that way, and both of you are reduced to animals then. the sounds between you are completely inhuman, and you can’t tell where yours end and his begin.
and suguru fucks you like he teaches: not slow, but intentional, precise, every movement with an insurmountable sense of purpose.
and fucking bossy.
“ngh yeah, squeeze me like that again, dove.”
“oh f-fuck, baby, align your hips.”
“c-can you—haah—arch into me a little more? yeah, that’s right.”
with each driving thrust of his hips you rub your clit along his pelvis, warmth spreading behind your belly button and down each leg. suguru never quite recovered from that first thrust, forehead damp and still at your shoulder as he groans directions into the soft skin there. and your hands grab anywhere they can reach: into the roots of his hair, down the planes of his back, along the slope of his ass to feel the muscles grind.
the friction his happy trail makes with your clit is driving you wild, you’re fucking close, and he can feel it in the way you pulse around him.
with the sudden capacity to mock you he coos gently, “oh, little dove, are you close?”
and you can only nod and pant and whine like a bitch in heat, the crest of your pleasure tapping leisurely on the wing of your shoulder, ready to round the corner.
“hah—yeah, i can fucking feel it.” he adjusts his weight to one arm so he can band the other around your back, pulling your tits flush to his chest. the leverage only grinds him harder into you and you’re nearly screeching with the pressure. he wants to kiss you and you want to return it, but your lips meet open, exchanging air to be puffed back and forth.
“make a mess for me,” he encourages, each thrust more erratic than the last—he’s close, too—and every moan pitched higher. “c’mon, i—shit, unh—i wanna feel your pussy choke me.”
you come so hard you feel like you’re spinning, like you’re on stage, like there’s some great applause awaiting you. it detaches from deep in your groin and pulses outwards, gushing arousal and cream over suguru’s cock and entirely fragmenting you, boneless as he fucks you through it.
“fuckfuckfuck,” he bites the juncture of your shoulder with your neck, “i made this body, dove. you’re mine, huh?”
and hearing it, even from his own lips, takes him over, too, hips stuttering to a stop as he growls wild, seed spurting inside you, warm. your name, your real name, unspools from his mouth, and it sounds like thank you.
part of you expects, sweaty and still and plugged with suguru’s softening cock, that a great shame will dawn upon you now. you think maybe you should feel ashamed for letting him fuck you here, raw, his student.
but as you’re whining into each other’s mouths when he pulls out, as he smooths his hands over your stomach and thighs, as he kisses you again without the sort of demands he had before, the guilt doesn’t arrive.
suguru watches you closely—he’s good at that, you’ve determined—as he sits back on his haunches. you realize he’s waiting for that guilt to come, too.
“okay?” he asks softly.
you could laugh at him for that question, but you grin instead. “mhm.”
his chest unburdens a weight seeing that look on your face. you can see something gathering on his palate, too, something he likes the taste of.
and then he spits it: “there’s a shower in my office bathroom.”
you really do laugh this time, full-bodied and sore and wet again.
~~~~~~~
you don’t think you’ve ever seen mr. geto with eye bags before. you don’t think anyone has. though, you suppose he seems the type to prioritize his beauty sleep.
or, most of the time, anyway. you couldn’t help that he wanted you again in the shower, and then at his desk chair, and then from behind with your knee propped against the barre, and then—
nobara bows into a pigeon stretch next to you, snickering as she assesses him in his seat. she heckles him: “exhausted is no state to dance in.”
your body seizes with embarrassment and delight all at once, and even though your chin drops to your chest as you stretch your hips, you can feel him watching you all the same.
nobara is watching you now, too, but you notice it too late. she stifles a giggle next to you. “is that a fucking hickey?”
~~~~~~~
thank you for reading !!! comments and reblogs always appreciated >:)
synopsis: there is no doubt that mr. geto is an exceptional dancer, and a kind instructor. you have no doubt, either, that the perverse, voracious need you have for him is unrequited. of course, he calls you little dove and watches you dance low-lidded and teases you with innuendo, but surely he doesn't mean it...right?
pairing: ballet instructor!geto x ballerina!reader
a/n: it's been so long since i've posted a full length fic! i'm sorry and i love you all and please open your holes to me so i may place this fic there
18+! mdni <3
masterlist
~~~~~~~
mr. geto is nothing like the instructors you despised as a teen.
you can remember walking to your car after your first lesson with him and pressing your forefinger to the tender crest of your ear, marvelling at the lack of ringing there. you were used to shrill yelling, to the echo of it against the mirror and back again, to higher and stretch and reach bellowed into your bones.
but mr. geto, it seems, is exceptionally thoughtful about how his sound carries, speaking only as loud as necessary to be heard by the furthest dancer from him. the register of his voice makes the floor thrum and your knees twitch and he seems to notice these things, take stock of them, adjust.
he does not use his hands, either.
all other ballet instructors at your company use their fingers to adjust the body, to create the proper lines. you are completely familiar with fingertips in the crease of your knee, along the slope of your navicular, down your spine: it is not uncomfortable, not anymore, and it is in service of this art you have devoted your life to. you don’t mind. and in the dead of night when your duvet feels heavy over your waist and thighs you think that you wouldn’t mind, in particular, if he used his fingers to adjust your body.
but he simply…doesn’t. he uses the shapes of himself, his own arms and torso, the extension of his own legs, to compose his requests of his dancers. higher, stretch, reach, he murmurs to the group of you, extending himself into position and showing you.
and a part of you likes that a great deal; there is no sense of injustice with him, no upset that he is asking something of you that he cannot himself achieve. you and the rest of the dancers watch as his twists and bows, displaying himself to guide through the moves, and it’s such a striking thing to behold that you can’t bring yourself to mind.
still, his beauty is the hardest part of being his student. the cording of his muscles, the sleek ink of his hair, the lithe curvature of his movements, it’s torturous. all at once you want to dance as he does, want to make your audience feel as he makes you feel, want him to shed himself of all professionalism and touch you somewhere irrevocable. you feel terrible and silly wanting it, wanting him, but there’s no helping it, you think.
and anyway, you insist that this wanting you indulge in in the dark isn’t dangerous. there is no oxygen for it in the studio, nothing to nurture your fantasies, and so you have to believe that they will wither and die with time.
of course, while you tie the ribbons of your pointe shoes around your ankles in the empty studio, you pray this fantasy death will happen sooner rather than later. it’s completely exhausting to be so constantly wondering what his cock feels like, and mr. geto likes to remind you that exhausted is no state to dance in.
you love arriving to the studio early like this. before the room is overtaken with the smell of sweat and resin, you can breathe in the marley flooring and stretch your legs wide, grateful. you seek out lonely moments to appreciate how rare it is that you’ve succeeded in ballet enough to make a living from it; you close your eyes and get overdramatically philosophical, and it’s a privilege. you love it.
and yes, fine, it secures mr. geto’s first five minutes in the studio for yourself. this cannot be helping your attempt to suffocate your wanting, you know, but then he’s walking through the door draped in fine linen and hair pulled messy to the crown of his head, and you go boneless.
“good morning, dove,” he calls over his shoulder, turned away from you as he sets his things down.
you don’t remember when he started calling you that, and you don’t know if he uses it with other dancers, but god how can you blame yourself for getting sticky for him when he addresses you that way?
“good morning, mr. geto,” you call back, trying to sound lazy with the dawn as you continue stretching. you watch your fingers splayed on the floor, the borders of each vinyl panel, anything other than his strides towards his seat at the front of the room.
he plops rather unceremoniously down, legs spread slightly and head tipped back as he groans something truly criminal. you can feel something hot and biting between your legs but you try to ignore it, looking up at him.
“exhausted is no state to dance in,” you say with a smile.
he does not lift his head—you wonder if he wants to cause you pain by forcing you to watch the curved tilt of his throat and jaw—but you can see from the movement of his cheeks that he is smiling a little.
“i’m not dancing, dove, you are.”
you roll onto your back and starfish out, sufficiently limber. “what sort of terror will rain down on us today?”
he does look down at you then, lip still curved enough to look like a smirk, and when his head tilts just slightly you die a little death. “terror? i’m never terrible, i know i’m not.” his fingers make a soft sound against his thigh as he taps on it mindlessly. “you’ll like the combos today.”
you can’t help but bark a little laugh. “you don’t mean that. that’s something you only say when they’re hard.”
a chuckle pushes out through his nose. “yes, i know.” and then, matter-of-factly, he adds, “you like it hard.”
and god you try not to draw attention to the innuendo in that comment. just as he says it the doors are pushed open with a low thunk and the rest of the dancers come filtering in, and so you have every possible opportunity to be normal and professional and not silly and terrible, but you are a silly and terrible woman, so your chest stutters on your next breath. and he watches.
you choose to believe, for your health and happiness, that he still couldn’t quite discern what your reaction was, or why it would have happened. but you cannot deny the fleeting scent of smugness on him, or the way his jaw twitches when his eyes flit to you between greeting your colleagues.
he must be, you decide as you come to take your place at the barre, a cruel and unusual man who has recognized your unrequited lust and wants to punish you for it.
yes, that must be it, you assure yourself.
the rest of class is excruciating. all the typical torment of watching the man whose bones you are so desperate to jump contort himself into beautiful shapes is mounted further by the way he watched you this morning, the way his head dropped to the side just so to see you fluster for a moment.
you try to channel it into the combos. as you travel across the room, you work to carve the feeling from your chest and toss it outwards, anywhere else. your legs burn with your leaping and turning but you push harder, hoping you’ll reach some critical point at which the physical soreness of your muscles eclipses the fluttering behind your navel, but you can’t quite catch it. and every time you hope you might be close, you feel your fingertips just grazing a moment of forgetting, you catch his eye again, and something hungry pulses in your stomach.
you probably need to get fucked. you definitely need to get fucked, actually, because you’ll ruin all your leotards if this continues.
sweat shines down your body by the time class is finally, mercifully over, and the plan has already solidified then. you’ll go out tonight, you’ll get well and sufficiently railed, and at long last you will be able to address your fucking ballet instructor properly.
even collecting your bag from the floor makes your muscles scream. your steps drag as you shuffle about, removing your pointe shoes and slinging your purse over your shoulder in the waning light of the day.
“was that your attempt at proving me wrong?”
you straighten, inhaling sharply. when you look over your shoulder, it’s only you and mr. geto in the studio again. he’s standing in the threshold now, body leaned against the door as he watches you finish packing.
fuck.
normally you might relish this sort of attention from him, but at this point you feel overfilled with the smoke of your desperation and you need to breathe. you need to go to the club and release some of this pent up sexual energy. you need to get out before you spread your legs for him in front of the fucking mirror.
you try to laugh lightly, but it sounds tired and reedy. “yeah, i guess not.” shrugging a little, you add, “couldn’t help it.” and you tried to use that tone of voice one uses when a conversation is over, for the first time since meeting him hoping he simply turns and leaves, but he stays static there, watching you.
you flounder, looking for anything else to say. you want to lighten the tension that’s pulling your hips towards him, so you put on a wry smile. “i’ll try less tomorrow.”
that makes him chuckle as he brings a hand up to massage one shoulder. inevitably you think of how it might feel under your fingers, how it might tense if you were riding him and he was using that arm to lift and drop you on his—
“i do have one note for you, actually,” he murmurs, and you try to mask the horror on your face as he begins walking towards you. “show me your grand adage from the last combo.”
you hesitate a moment, clutching your purse tightly with one arm and opening your diaphragm so he doesn’t see your lungs constrict. this is normal, you remind yourself, he is being a normal instructor.
and it’s true, this is normal, but he has abnormal sex appeal and you are abnormally tightly wound and and he has never adjusted you with his hands before. this is a terrible, horrible, grotesque idea, but what are you supposed to say? no?
you drop your things slowly at your feet, tracking the sweeping of his eyes along your movements. with your hands empty again you stand still a moment, surely looking as bewildered as you feel, but he nods slightly: go ahead.
you steady the soft tremble of your fingers as you extend your arms outwards, aligning your spine as your leg extends behind you. your core engages to keep your hips from tilting upwards, chin high to create a sloping line from your neck and down your torso. even though you do not—cannot—look mr. geto in the eyes you can feel him watching, your muscles twitch when he assesses them, fluttering like little birds under your skin.
“yes, that’s it,” he says, low, behind his teeth. he begins to walk around you, and if you didn’t know any better you’d think he was trying to make you feel predated.
two things happen at once. you realize—and the weight of it nearly buckles your knees and takes you through the floor of the studio—that he is not going to show you want he wants by doing it at precisely the moment one long finger brushes the under side of your thigh. there isn’t even anything promiscuous about where he grazes the fingerpad, but nevertheless you feel like an open wound, a nerve, only barely restraining a full body shudder at the feeling. what the fuck is he doing?
“you can lift this higher.”
you’re almost thankful that you scoff on instinct; it makes you sound less affected by this than you are. “i’m—i’m trying, but–”
and then you really do shudder, hot and tacky from the nexus of your legs as his hand grips your thigh in full, pulling it a centimeter higher and watching your body absorb the movement to balance. your breaths puff sharp and you can’t even attempt to stop them now.
his voice is no louder than a whisper but there’s no breath in it, all timbre and sound. “there, dove. hold that.” his hand pulls away torturously slow, and at such an angle that you feel the point of each fingertip as his palm falls away. you hope he’s spontaneously blinded so he can’t see the goosebumps erupting down your arms, but instead he leans an inch closer to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, watching you strain to keep the position from just behind your shoulder.
“it makes it harder if you hold your breath.” you can hear the twitch of his lips in that and it makes it no easier for you to take in air, but you pull a trembling gulp of air in anyways. to please him, you suppose, because apparently that’s all you’re capable of doing.
he hums in approval, “that’s good enough, dove, thank you.”
and no sooner do the words leave his lips are you dropping your leg and fleeing out the door, only barely remembering your bag.
~~~~~~~
you’re learning that your desperation for your ballet instructor is an exceptionally powerful tool.
earlier today, you pushed your body beyond its limit in the name of exorcising yourself of the curse of him. you were an outward force then, expanding and swelling and trying to expel the dark sweetness between your thighs.
now, haunting the neon shadows of this club in your highest, most painful heels, you think your desperation has a scent. you can’t remember ever being looked at in this way; from across the dance floor and behind the bar and in a far away corner, you catch men’s glances, all of them wolfish and interested. they can tell you need to be fucked, immediately.
you select the largest specimen you can find; a hulking mountain of a creature with a scar down one side of his mouth. he’s not quite handsome in the way suguru is handsome, it’s a louder, more insistent sort of attractiveness, but nonetheless you eye fuck him until he approaches you, knowing his weight will feel nice enough from behind.
he grabs at your side when he arrives in front of you, sliding a paw down your lower back. “come dance with me,” he rasps into your ear, and while normally you’d ask for the decency of exchanging names, tonight you’re sold.
you laugh as he tugs you into the fray, a throng of bodies pressed close and tacky with sweat. there’s a strange relief as he settles behind you, strobes flaring in your vision and his thick fingers around your waist. you can already feel how this ends, something sloppy and vaguely grotesque but you don’t even mind, you’re so coiled and greedy for this man you cannot have.
the music pulls you together and he grinds with you in time with it, pulling your ass against his jeans and twisting your hips back and forth.
he runs his nose down the slope of your neck, feeling how pliant your limbs move for him. “you’re flexible, huh?”
with your head tilted back against his shoulder he brings one hand slowly up the front of your body, grasping loosely at your neck. you grin and nod into it, letting your eyes go hazy as you look up at the rigged lights and the rising fog.
you’re fucking soaked. you really would just like it if he’d bully his cock into you here in the middle of the dance floor so you can finally think straight, and you’re considering pulling him into the bathroom to do something truly indefensible against the dirty basin of a sink, but you feel his tendons tense around your throat and it makes you tilt your chin back down on instinct.
into your ear he asks, almost amused by what he’s seeing, “d’you know him?”
your heart sinks.
whatever buoy you had wrestled between your arms was dissolving back into salt water, you’re slipping, you’re frantic, you’re looking across the dance floor and fucking suguru geto is there.
his hair is down and silky over his shoulders, which pull a white t shirt taut across the planes of his chest. you can see, even from here, the shadows of lean muscle, his body’s capacity for dance. the sleeves of his shirt are short enough that you can see, for the first time, the head of a snake tattoo peeking just below the hem.
fuck.
and no wonder your enormous dance partner figured you knew each other; the way he’s looking at you is lethal, a sharp slice of a stare from across the room, a pointed watching. his lips twitch when he sees you notice him, something conspiratorial and entirely his own there. it looks as though he’s holding a live animal in his mouth, sly and coy and biting down on a moving thing behind his tongue. a single, sinewy hand lifts from his side and he waves.
fuck fuck fuck.
in a fleeting out-of-body event, you can appreciate the hilarity of this moment. it pulls a sound from your throat, almost a laugh, almost a scoff, too, and you stumble slightly out of the hold of the man behind you. “i—well, yeah, actually.” you have no idea what look you’re wearing, but when you turn to face your dance partner, it makes him chuckle under his breath.
“you uh,” he scratches at his scar with his thumb, “you wanna go over there?”
he’s teasing you—this much is obvious to you—and so much of you is desperate to tell him no, i’d like to stay right here, and grip to the veins of his forearms and let him take you home. but then you think of mr. geto’s hands along your thigh as he adjusted it and it’s almost like he has you between his fingers again, towing you towards him.
“i–i’m sorry, i just think i should go and–” you gesticulate behind you, vaguely, reaching for something dignified to say, “and say hi.” a failure of the highest order.
the man in front of you laughs again, deep and from his stomach this time. he’s already tilting his body away from you, already letting you go, already sensing that the smell of your pussy was meant for the long-haired figure a few feet away. “you go right ahead, ma,” you think if he wasn’t so huge a person, his laughing would sound like giggling, “i’ll be fine.”
the sight of him slipping away from you makes you nauseous. you’re watching your own failure, all six feet and four inches of him, dissipating again into the sea of people, already under the manicured fingers of other women who aren’t waiting to arch for someone who essentially equates to their boss.
but there’s something secret and sweet to watching him go, too. standing resigned on the dance floor, accepting whatever honeyed trap fate has set for you, you can unburden yourself from this taxing process of trying so hard not to embarrass yourself. yes, you think, i will simply embarrass myself, and maybe whatever follows won’t feel so excruciatingly painful.
geto watches you carefully as you slink to his table. he keeps the muscles in his face slack, neutral enough to obscure the meaning from his expression, but the faint pull of his jaw reminds you of this morning, of after class. despite yourself, you align your body properly as you take the six odd steps to stand at his feet, extending your legs the way you know he’d want in the light of day.
he smells like musk and something botanical when you get close enough. you hope you don’t smell like your own slick.
“it was sort of deja vu, watching that,” he begins. even under the beating of the music he refuses to shout, voice unfurling from behind his lips and just barely reaching your ears.
you wrinkle your nose a little. “how do you mean?”
the ice in his drink chimes with a flick of his wrist. “watching you dance.”
you tilt your head back and forth, feigning some sort of consideration. “no, i think this might be different.”
he’s smiling enough now that you can almost see his teeth. the part of you that is desperate to be cautious screeches that he’s playing with you, he doesn’t want you, but with each tip of your skull you can feel that voice liquifying. you hope it slips out your ear.
“how so?” he asks.
you do your best to keep a straight face. “well, for one, i don’t want your notes.”
he looks almost joyful to spit this back at you: “oh i have a few, actually.”
your laugh is too breathy and real to truly hear it against the ambient noise of the room, but he tracks it anyway, swishes his ice again. “you’re unqualified, unfortunately. this type of dancing isn’t your expertise, mr. geto—”
“suguru,” he interjects. “suguru here.”
your thighs twitch, almost stinging with need now, but you steady yourself with a breath, humming, “okay, suguru, this type of dancing isn’t your expertise. i only accept edits from experts.”
“i might surprise you, dove.”
you run your tongue along the front of your teeth. he’s asking you to play, you think, and so you raise your eyebrows and tilt your chin the way he does when he wants you to begin.
“well,” he takes a fraction of a step towards you and you match it backwards, pushed by the heat of him and the smell of his cologne, “i think you moved a little too quickly.”
you’re moving entirely in tandem now, him forward and you back, all the way until your head bumps a wall. cornered like this, he eclipses almost your entire line of sight, a vignette of dark hair.
“the part when you tilt your head back here,” and he gestures to his shoulder, “that’s the best part. you fell straight into it.”
something shudders up your legs and you squeeze them together, desperate for a moment of anything against the swelling button between them.
“they need to wait longer for it. makes it better.”
his smirk is slowly fading, something more intimate making space for itself across his mouth. if he recognizes the irony of this, he doesn’t show it, demanding simply: “show me.”
you have half a mind to gape at him, at what he’s offering, but instead you turn—stupid, whorish thing—as he asked, pressing yourself slowly to him. when your ass bumps against his pelvis he groans low. he’s rock hard against you, and a gasp moves up your windpipe but he has his free hand on your chin first, forcing your head back to his shoulder.
contorted like this, his nose grazes your cheek, his breath filtered into your ear. you whine, feline and soft, and he hums in return.
“yeah, it’s good, huh?” and he ruts his hips slightly into yours to emphasize his point, nosing your cheekbone. “so you have to start somewhere else.”
the hand on your chin falls away, moving to the small of your back where it bends back for him. he pushes his thumb to your spine, and then the rest of his palm, bending you forward at the waist. your hands come up to brace on the wall and you let your forehead fall there, too, letting the cool concrete tether you to whatever sanity you have left.
he exhales like veneered restraint watching you tilt, feeling the extra push of your thighs against his cock twitching in his pants. “yes, dove, like that.” he grinds against you in earnest then, dragging the clothed shaft of him over the globes of your ass. “he should work for it a little.”
he pushes again and you moan fully. it leaps from the wall to his ears and it earns you another drag, his fingers bruising against your waist.
“and then,” his composure is dwindling, you can hear it, and he ruts again, “once he’s worked up,” he drags the hand at your hip up your side, around your front, between your breasts to arch you back to him again. your back bows taut and impossible to meet him, head falling immediately to his shoulder this time, eyes squeezed shut. you wonder if your slick is running down your legs now, or if it’s still pooled in your panties. he finishes into your ear, “then you come up here.”
you wiggle your hips against him, needy, and he grunts. “what did he say to you?” he grits out.
your capacity to think is low, practically panting like he’s already inside you. “huh?”
“when he had you here, he said something that made you laugh, i wanna know what it was.” with his hand fanned across your stomach he can pull you tight against his thrusts.
“h-he, he said i—fuck suguru, i-”
“come on, little dove,” he coos.
your eyes flutter open to find him watching you, purple eyes skidding across your skin. “he said i was flexible,” you huff.
he smiles like he’s going to eat you. “oh yeah? and did you tell him it’s because your mr. geto stretches you?”
your fists bunch and pull against the wall. you’re certain he can feel you clenching through your dress. your mr. geto, jesus. “n-no,” you breathe.
“oh, that cuts deep, dove,” he tuts, but he fucks against your ass again anyway, “i work so hard to stretch you open and you’re not giving me credit?”
you find yourself with the fleeting and miraculous wherewithal to laugh, light and towards the ceiling. “i’ll tell him next time, then.”
that makes suguru laugh, too, the both of you almost manic with the truly absurd suggestion that you would ever be touched by anyone else.
you feel very suddenly like a stray dog at his doorstep, scrap-fed by his hand, bony and waiting for something warm to be tossed out again. the fear that he doesn’t mean this the way you’re taking it, that he wants you only briefly, chokes you still.
“are you drunk?” you ask him.
he lets you feel the frenetic pattern of his breathing against your neck. “no.”
and then even smaller, you can’t help it: “are you messing with me?”
slowly, he brings the hand with his drink up, extending his forefinger out around your front. it’s cold from the glass as it taps on your chin once, twice, and then drags down the line of your throat. “no.”
and you aren’t quite sure how you would describe what you feel move through him then, a trembling sort of shake, maybe, but as it buzzes through his hips he thrusts the momentum up into you. later, you would come to realize this was the sensation of him, at last, deciding something he could not take back.
“i think you left something with me at the studio today,” he murmurs. the electricity of knowing you did not leave something at the studio takes hold of your ribs and tugs. “you left in such a rush.”
“i think you know that’s you’re fault, suguru.”
he smiles small into the side of your face. “yes, i know.” a finger brushes under the swell of your breast. “i can drive you there to come get it.”
you’re beginning to squirm in his hold now, the beastly thing between your thighs drooling in full, usurping control of your limbs. “haven’t you been drinking?”
and suguru is all too pleased to bring his glass to your lips, tipping it slowly onto your tongue.
he’s drinking fucking sparkling water.
he isn’t even tipsy.
you’re nodding before you can even gulp enough air to say yes.
~~~~~~~
you barely make it out of his car before he’s on you. pressed against the passenger door, he kisses you like he wants to reach inside and pull out a rib. it’s teeth and tongue and your mewls in his mouth, and it makes him pull one leg up around his hip to grind slow against your clothed pussy.
he strokes his tongue along yours as he guides you to the front door, bucking into you when you bite down soft on his bottom lip.
“fuck,” he pants. “get inside.”
seeing the studio at night is strange. the moonlight glints off the mirror, bathing the room in silver streaks. stranger still is hearing geto come in behind you, locking the door with a low snick.
he passes behind you like a memory, stepping just to graze your back and shoulder before pulling away and towards his usual seat at the mirror. “stand center floor for me, dove,” he instructs.
your body moves without much thought. it’s so easy to do as he says here, to pervert the habit of following his directions as you stand at the center of the vinyl.
suguru runs a hand across his jaw, over his lips, watching you stand static as asked. you know how lust blown your eyes are already because you can see the black depth of them in the mirror behind his head. “stretch for me,” he sighs.
a strange confidence feeds and swells in your belly, something alight and excited as you bend at the waist. your movements are no more salacious than they normally are, simple contortions to warm your hips and thighs, but you slow them enough to match the moment. your dress, too, heightens it; the hem teases the curve of your ass, your swollen mound, tight against you in ways your dance clothes aren’t. geto has sharpened the air to a fine point, and you teeter on it.
your head flips over, legs softly bent and then straight again, swishing open and closed. between each movement you glance up at him, swallowing thick at the shadow behind the tent in his jeans, the clench of his fist as it approaches his length. when you open your legs past second position and bend to stretch between them, he moans, unashamed, and you can tell from the lilt of pain in it that he’s stroking himself over his pants now. your pussy nearly opens in this position, faced away from him, and you feel the fever say his name.
“your middle split now, dove,” he grips himself like he means to strangle, tipping his head back against the mirror to watch you over the bridge of his nose, adding, “please.”
with your hands splayed on the floor, you drop simply into it. when your clit bumps the cool flooring you whine in your throat, settling your weight. suguru is stroking himself in earnest over the denim when you peer up at him. “uh huh,” he pants, “and bend the knees now, just a little.”
your knees cant up and you tuck your tailbone, forcing your dress to ruck up around your hips and display, fully, the wet mess of your panties. the suffocated whine suguru sounds punches the air from your lungs, and you lean back onto your elbows behind you, looking to breathe, looking to survive for another moment.
you wish you could have a picture of the two of you this way; you entirely on display for him—and for yourself, too, as you cannot avoid your own reflection beside him—and your unflappably composed instructor, squeezing down the veins of his cock through the rough pull of his jeans, watching. and because you spend hours every day being directed by him, you know what he will ask you next before he even voices it, but you wait to hear it anyway.
“touch yourself for me.”
your fingers fly to your clit, drawing slow circles around, crossing over to feel yourself jolt. your hole pulses and spits, and suguru growls like he can see it from halfway across the room. the utter relief of friction, fucking finally, makes you tip your head back, moaning wild into the still air.
but then you hear his lips part to say something and you’re pulling your head back straight, still circling over your clit and then your entrance, meaningless patterns over your thong that make your toes curl in your heels.
“you know i never once—ngh, fuck—had the urge to adjust a student with my hands? i always hated that when i was in class,” he grits. with trembling hands, he begins to unbutton himself, pulling his cock out and tugging on it immediately.
god, he’s pretty. long and soft and leaning the way the rest of him leans, gliding between his fingers with the pearls of pre beading at his tip.
“but i thought that if i,” he pauses to groan with you, “if i touched you once i could fucking forget about it.”
you speed your fingers with each word he says, each stroke of his hand over all eight inches of his cock. a far away voice registers that you’re whining, too, but your mind filters it away, tuned completely to suguru’s confession in the dark.
your smile is wry, and reveals as much as anything. “did it work?”
he laughs then, almost at you. “no, you know what dove, it didn’t really—hah—didn’t really work for me.”
your hips buck into your fingers, a buzzing coil now. “suguru,” you begin, but he doesn’t need to hear any more.
“i know,” he moans.
you have transcended his direction, you think, merged into him enough to comply without listening. he’s tearing his shirt and pants off as frantically as you tug your dress up and over your shoulders, and you’ve only barely shimmied your panties down your legs when he arrives in front of you, completely bare. you think suguru geto, tacky with sweat and need and cock nearly swollen purple, has achieved his own pinnacle, descending to his knees to meet you.
and there’s an ephemeral, fleeting moment, when you both simply watch each other in all the places you’ve kept obscured for so long. his eyes circle over your tits, the pert peaks of your nipples, the gleaming of your slit. you track the snake tattoo from the bulge of his shoulder and around his back, pupils flitting between him and his reflection.
suguru takes hold of both your ankles on each side of his narrows hips, squeezing once, and then gliding them up, up, around your knee, along the inside of your thighs. it dawns on you that he knows exactly where to press, where each muscle begins and ends, because of how much he watches you flex and extend. your breathing comes labored and round, small yips and whines when goosebumps push into his fingers.
he can’t help but tug your hips towards his bobbing cock when his hands arrive there. you squirm and twist to try and sink him inside but he holds you to the floor, jaw tight.
“not yet, dove, i need to stretch you,” he grunts.
and you’re giggling before you can stop it. “you use a lot of double entendre, is that on purpose?”
he’s smiling now, too, but more than anything you think its a wicked joy with how your mouth drops open as he circles two fingers around your entrance. your arousal is so hot and so everywhere that you think you can hear it dripping onto the marley.
“keep your legs open.” he uses the tone of voice he employs during class and it only makes you gush more, but you do as he asks, tightening your outer thighs to hold yourself spread as he pushes two fingers inside.
“oh fuck,” you pant.
it seems to affect him in equal measure, cock twitching with each pull of his digits, lips parted ever so slightly. he scissors his fingers apart and back again, feeling along the inside of your walls, looking.
“ah—yeah, yes, there,” you mewl, and he moans something sincere in turn. the pads of his fingers brush and swish along that spot and something behind your ribs is turning over, growing teeth. you whine out a small fuck and that’s it: suguru is gone.
in a single motion, he pulls his fingers from you, breathes in your protest of a whine, and lowers his hips to run the ruddy tip of his cock over your clit, down, down. you run your nose along his forearm as he braces them on each side of your head, feeling the brush of his hair along your shoulder.
his mouth parts directly over your ear like this, and you feel his hand squeeze your left thigh. “lift this for me.”
and as you extend it up to hook over his shoulder, legs spread in almost a full split below his hold, he notches his head inside, a lewd pop that echos up your spine and between your ears.
suguru’s head drops to your shoulder as he bares his teeth. “fuuuuuuck jesus christ.”
you’re no better, winding your right leg around his left and bucking your hips to slide him home. he indulges you this time—perhaps for the first time since meeting him—and cants his hips again. you’re so fucking wet and ready and open for him that he slides to the hilt that way, and both of you are reduced to animals then. the sounds between you are completely inhuman, and you can’t tell where yours end and his begin.
and suguru fucks you like he teaches: not slow, but intentional, precise, every movement with an insurmountable sense of purpose.
and fucking bossy.
“ngh yeah, squeeze me like that again, dove.”
“oh f-fuck, baby, align your hips.”
“c-can you—haah—arch into me a little more? yeah, that’s right.”
with each driving thrust of his hips you rub your clit along his pelvis, warmth spreading behind your belly button and down each leg. suguru never quite recovered from that first thrust, forehead damp and still at your shoulder as he groans directions into the soft skin there. and your hands grab anywhere they can reach: into the roots of his hair, down the planes of his back, along the slope of his ass to feel the muscles grind.
the friction his happy trail makes with your clit is driving you wild, you’re fucking close, and he can feel it in the way you pulse around him.
with the sudden capacity to mock you he coos gently, “oh, little dove, are you close?”
and you can only nod and pant and whine like a bitch in heat, the crest of your pleasure tapping leisurely on the wing of your shoulder, ready to round the corner.
“hah—yeah, i can fucking feel it.” he adjusts his weight to one arm so he can band the other around your back, pulling your tits flush to his chest. the leverage only grinds him harder into you and you’re nearly screeching with the pressure. he wants to kiss you and you want to return it, but your lips meet open, exchanging air to be puffed back and forth.
“make a mess for me,” he encourages, each thrust more erratic than the last—he’s close, too—and every moan pitched higher. “c’mon, i—shit, unh—i wanna feel your pussy choke me.”
you come so hard you feel like you’re spinning, like you’re on stage, like there’s some great applause awaiting you. it detaches from deep in your groin and pulses outwards, gushing arousal and cream over suguru’s cock and entirely fragmenting you, boneless as he fucks you through it.
“fuckfuckfuck,” he bites the juncture of your shoulder with your neck, “i made this body, dove. you’re mine, huh?”
and hearing it, even from his own lips, takes him over, too, hips stuttering to a stop as he growls wild, seed spurting inside you, warm. your name, your real name, unspools from his mouth, and it sounds like thank you.
part of you expects, sweaty and still and plugged with suguru’s softening cock, that a great shame will dawn upon you now. you think maybe you should feel ashamed for letting him fuck you here, raw, his student.
but as you’re whining into each other’s mouths when he pulls out, as he smooths his hands over your stomach and thighs, as he kisses you again without the sort of demands he had before, the guilt doesn’t arrive.
suguru watches you closely—he’s good at that, you’ve determined—as he sits back on his haunches. you realize he’s waiting for that guilt to come, too.
“okay?” he asks softly.
you could laugh at him for that question, but you grin instead. “mhm.”
his chest unburdens a weight seeing that look on your face. you can see something gathering on his palate, too, something he likes the taste of.
and then he spits it: “there’s a shower in my office bathroom.”
you really do laugh this time, full-bodied and sore and wet again.
~~~~~~~
you don’t think you’ve ever seen mr. geto with eye bags before. you don’t think anyone has. though, you suppose he seems the type to prioritize his beauty sleep.
or, most of the time, anyway. you couldn’t help that he wanted you again in the shower, and then at his desk chair, and then from behind with your knee propped against the barre, and then—
nobara bows into a pigeon stretch next to you, snickering as she assesses him in his seat. she heckles him: “exhausted is no state to dance in.”
your body seizes with embarrassment and delight all at once, and even though your chin drops to your chest as you stretch your hips, you can feel him watching you all the same.
nobara is watching you now, too, but you notice it too late. she stifles a giggle next to you. “is that a fucking hickey?”
~~~~~~~
thank you for reading !!! comments and reblogs always appreciated >:)
୨୧ — You don't know it -you can't know it- but Nanami Kento is already fucked.
He watches you order your coffee, listens to the way you stumble over the pronunciation of some overcomplicated latte, cheeks flushing pink when the barista asks you to repeat yourself. You're still wearing your university hoodie. The sleeves swallow your hands, making you look small. Soft. And he has to force himself to look away.
His throat is dry. His hands clenched into fists under the table he sits at, a surefire way to keep them from reaching out. From doing something stupid. Something unprofessional.
Shit.
His cock stirs in his slacks and he hates himself for it. Hates the quick mental math -ten years, maybe nine- and hates even more how the number makes heat pool low in his gut. He knows he's older... And he knows he shouldn't have eyed you up and down like he had-
"She's cute," Satoru drawls beside him, already grinning like he knows exactly what Nanami's thinking, "Bet I could get her number before you finish your espresso."
Nanami rolls his eyes. Says nothing.
But beneath the table, his hand unclenches and tightens on his thigh, because the truth -the sick, shameful truth- is that he's already picturing you spread open on his sheets, those wide doe eyes looking up at him, glassy with tears while his cock splits you apart.
Three days later, and you're finally beneath him.
Finally.
"Nanami-san," you whisper, and your voice cracks on his name, trembling and uncertain. Your fingers curl into the expensive cotton of his sheets -grey, immaculate, older adult- and you look so fucking out of place against them. Too soft. Too sweet. A flower pressed between pages of tax documents and existential exhaustion...
She called me Nanami-san even now, he thinks, and his cock jerks hard against the slick heat of your entrance. Even with my cock about to-
"Kento," he corrects as he shifts his hips, letting the fat head of his cock catch against your clit making you gasp, "Call me Kento."
You nod, a frantic, messy thing, "M'kay-," you breathe, and he can feel the way your thighs tremble where they're bracketing his hips, "K-Kento~ ah
He pushes forward. Just an inch.
You're so small like this. He could fold you in half if he wanted. Could pin your knees to your chest and watch your pretty face crumple as he fucked you stupid.
Patience, he tells himself. She's never had anything this big.
You're so fucking tight though -clenching around just the head like you're trying to push him out- and he has to stop, breathe, remind himself that he can't just slam into you no matter how badly he wants to.
"Nnn- hurts- Nanami, it hurts- s'too big"
"I know, sweetheart. Relax for me." He rolls his hips, sinks another inch, and your nails bite into his skin through his shirt, "Breathe. You're doing so well."
She's so young, he thinks, feeding himself into you centimeter by agonizing centimeter. So tight. So inexperienced. Never had a cock like this in her before, and now she's taking mine...
The thought makes his balls draw up. He has to stop again, buried halfway, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache.
"How- how much more?" you whimper. Tears are leaking from the corners of your eyes, sliding down your temples into your hair, and Nanami wants to lick them off your skin.
"Just a little more." A lie. He's barely past the thickest part, and there's still inches to go, "You can take it... I know you can."
"M'trying -hic- m'really trying, but-"
He kisses your forehead. Cups your cheek. Feels his cock twitch inside you when you lean into the touch like a starved kitten.
Jesus Christ, she's going to kill me.
"I've got you... Trust me to take care of you."
When he finally bottoms out, you make a sound that Nanami will replay in his head for the rest of his life.
A broken little oh, half moan, half sob, your cunt stretched obscenely around the base of his cock. He can see the bulge of himself in your lower belly, can feel your walls fluttering in confused protest, can see the exact moment your body gives up fighting and just... accepts.
She's ruined for anyone else, now. He knows this with a bone deep certainty. This is the cock that'll break you, that'll remold you, that'll leave you forever wanting something bigger. Something better.
Something older.
Him, and only him.
"There you go," he breathes, and his voice comes out rougher than he means it to.
"S'so big," you slur, eyes glazed, "c-can feel you in my- in my stomach-"
Nanami pulls out an inch. Slides back in, and watches your eyes roll back.
"Aahh-! Wai-wait- Kento- mmnnh-"
He doesn't wait. Can't. He's spent three days jerking off to the thought of this, of you, and now you're finally beneath him with your tight cunt milking his cock and he's done being patient.
He fucks you.
Slow at first, deep grinding thrusts that punch breathy little ahs out of your chest, and then faster as his control frays, his hips snapping against yours with wet squelches that fill the room. You're so fucking wet -your pussy making lewd slurping sounds every time he drives back in- and you're clinging to him, arms wrapped around his neck, face buried in his shoulder, muffling your cries against his shirt.
"Sound so pretty," he growls, hooking one of your knees over his elbow to fuck you deeper, "Squeezing me so tight."
"Hhh- nngh-" You can't even form words anymore. Just sobbing, keening sounds scattered with breathless moans, your whole body rocking with each thrust, "Hahh-hahh- K-Kento-!"
An older woman wouldn't sound like this, he thinks, pounding into you hard enough to make the headboard slam against the wall. Wouldn't shake like this. Wouldn't cry on my cock like a sweet, overwhelmed little thing.
This is why I wanted you.
He buries himself to the hilt, grinds his pelvis against your clit, and feels your cunt clamp down as you cum with a wrecked scream. The rhythmic squeeze of your walls is too much -too fucking good- and Nanami follows a heartbeat later, spilling deep inside you with a groan that rumbles up from his chest.
Afterward, you're trembling in his arms.
Fucked out. Glassy eyed. Tear tracks drying on your cheeks and his cum leaking from your swollen cunt, and Nanami pulls you closer, presses a kiss to your damp temple, and thinks-
they recognize you before he does; when he sees you for the first time, something in him stirs. it isn’t only your obvious beauty that steals the air from his lungs and leaves him completely silent, merely admiring. it’s something more primitive, something ancient — and the shadows recognize it before he can think about it.
they begin to watch you more closely: at first, they only want to know you. gently, almost imperceptibly, they drift toward you, sliding over your body in a way that is soft but curious. azriel tries to restrain them with all the strength he has, but they don’t listen; they’re far too busy trying to decipher you.
they start to follow you; they hide in the shadows of your room, where you go to read or rest. you feel watched, but not in a frightening way, in a comforting one, as if their presence soothes you.
when you make it clear that you know they’re there, they begin to behave as if they belong to you: you aren’t afraid, but quietly delighted by their presence, still not understanding why they’re so enchanted by you. but they begin to touch you gently; brushing your ankles, your waist, wrapping around your neck like a scarf.
they like you, so they begin to make your life a little lighter; you reach for something, and a shadow does it for you. you pause to tie your hair, and a shadow gently lifts it from your neck. you enter a room, and they move first; scouting it, circling you, guarding you. they weave through your fingers like they missed you after five minutes apart. one curls under your chin when you’re quiet; nudging you, coaxing a smile. another curls around your ankle when you’re annoyed — grounding, gentle. you don’t command them, you don’t ask, you don’t show that you need help; they simply come to you, like a tide pulled by gravity.
they observe every small thing about you; your routine, your mannerisms, your genuine smile and your polite one, your hobbies and interests. they take part in all of it; they love participating in your routine, your life, you. but when you’re sad, they make sure to warn azriel; before you even speak, his shadows coil tighter, agitated. they press into his back, tug his wrist, stir against his wings like “something’s wrong. fix it.” if someone raises their voice at you, they snap toward the sound, sharp and loud like a whip. if you’re hurt, they wail in a language only azriel understands. and if you ever cry, they pool in your lap like ink, like blankets, like comfort; and they don’t leave until you smile again.
they are possessive, but gentle; especially when others get too close to you. when someone passes too close, a shadow curls between your spines. someone touches your hand for too long, a flicker coils over your knuckles. someone tucks your hair behind your ear, the shadows bristle. not hostile, protective. but with you, they’re velvet. they press to your pulse points like they’re listening. they curl under your collar when you sleep. they nudge your fingertips like cats, always asking for more touch, more time.
they speak for him when he won’t; sometimes he wants to, but can’t say how beautiful you are, so a shadow gently brushes your cheek instead. when he’s quiet on the other side of the room, surrounded by people he doesn’t care about, aching to be near you, a shadow goes to you, sliding close. when you glance at him across the room, wondering if he’s looking, his shadows have already reached for your hand.
they protect your sleep; they coil around your bed and blur the windows. they hush the sounds outside, guard the door like sentries, and when you wake from a nightmare or a lingering chill, they rise like smoke to soothe you; brushing down your arms, curling against your chest, humming like a lullaby no one else can hear. sometimes azriel wakes too — miles away — heart racing, breath caught. because he felt it. the way they clung to you. the way you whispered his name in your sleep.
they guide you to him; you don’t ask where he is, you don’t need to. the shadows tug lightly at your fingers, coil gently at your waist. they guide you like a dance. like they need you to find him. and when you reach him, when azriel looks up, startled, awed, the shadows simply retreat into him like “she’s here. you’re welcome.”
they get jealous; you don’t think they can be petty, until you laugh too hard at something cassian says and a shadow snaps like a whip under the table. until mor tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and a shadow wraps around your shoulder like a scarf. until rhys gives you that look — that look — and a shadow flickers up your spine like no. they don’t hurt, don’t scare. but they warn. and azriel feels every flicker of it through his skin.
they always react to your voice; you don’t have to speak loudly, you don’t have to command — you simply exist, and the shadows lean in. when you read aloud, they hover near your lips and your lap. when you speak his name, they shiver. when you whisper something sweet under your breath, they scatter like they’re shy, then return like they couldn’t stay away. azriel once caught himself glaring at his own shadows because they were clearly more affectionate with you than with him. he doesn’t blame them. they got everything he wants — you.
Synopsis. Five times that Ryomen Sukuna - most desired man on campus, frat boy extraordinaire, your longtime FWB - would rather sIeep with you than tell you how he feels. And the one time he finally, finally does both.
Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!reader, frat boy!FWB!Sukuna, 5 + 1 things, FWB-to-Iovers, accidentally falling for your FWB, no strings attached, slightly toxic, pIayer!Sukuna, Kuna’s MEAN, denial, distractions, emotionaIIy stunted Kuna, jealousy, hurt + comfort, YEARNING, Choso cameo, Sukuna with tattoos, college wrestler!Sukuna, manhandIing, oraI (fem. rec), p talking, p sIapping, spítting, pússydrúnk Sukuna, spelling, overstím, HEADLOCKS, rough s, tummy buIges, talking you through it, running from it, chokíng, DÚMBlFlCATION, dirty taIk, creampíes, cúmpIay, slight bréeding, confessions, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.9k
A/N. Officially my longest fic hehehe- inspired by all the frat!Kuna edits I’ve been seeing on my FYP, bIess all editors.
“You’re obsessed with me.”
Sukuna grins. “Other way ‘round, mama.” He takes his long, languid time swirling around the liquid in his red Solo cup. It was some cheap bottle their new pledges had snagged, and it burned down his throat.
The aftermath was in the way the man stumbles just a little closer towards you. He catches himself with a tattooed hand pressed on the wall above your head. Abs against your core. Caging you. “Other. Way. ‘Round.”
You’re jutting your chin up in challenge, “It isn’t.”
He hums, “Isn’t it?”
“And what makes you so sure of yourself, Ryo?”
He shivers at the sound of your pretty voice. He could almost taste the cherry punch in it, and something about that made him tighten in his pants…“Maybe it’s the drinks talking, but I just know.” Sukuna leans in so close that there was barely a centimeter between you both, between your lips. “And I also know you want me, girlie. Bad.”
Even with your highest heels on, the pink-haired leader of Curses Epsilon (Curses ε, the most sought-after fraternity on campus) seemed to loom above you. Crimson eyes narrowed. Smile predatory. Signature black t-shirt tight.
He always had caught your eye, you had to admit.
C’mon, it was impossible for him not to: a few heads taller than most of the student body, more sculptured, more attractive. You’d heard a rumor that he did modelling down in Shibuya sometimes and you didn’t doubt it. He walked around this very university like he owned it. He probably did.
Sukuna pushes back his cotton-candy locks, and you’re seeing the roots of reddish brown where his undercut was.
The shade was so at odds with the utterly devilish look those tattoos gave him. Even now you could see the ink peaking out at his wrists, his collarbones, his nose bridge. They snaked all over his body. Sensual. And when he slowly dips his head down to kiss the underside of your jaw, you start to wonder just how far those patterns went…
“Oh.” You gasp, grabbing onto his well-built shoulders.
They flex through his thin t-shirt when he’s leaning even closer, and you’re suddenly remembering that he was here on a scholarship for wrestling. The infamous leader of his weight class on your university team. The King of the Court. At least that explained his irresistible build - you wonder whether he was a semi heavyweight? A heavyweight? Did they even have those?
You couldn’t think.
You’re tipping your neck further to the side, and from the edges of your peripheral vision you see the way that Sukuna raises one pink brow- before draaaaagging a line of soft kisses down the side of your throat. Filthy. Fleeting.
You’ve seen that look on him before - it’s the one he’d shoot at admirers that dared to stare too long. That sort of ‘if you want it come and get it’ look. That sort of challenge. Prowling through campus corridors that seemed to shrink whenever his figure waded through, sports bag slung over his shoulder, hair still wet from his shower, you could expect the sports superstar to throw at least ten at a time.
Though you couldn’t really blame them! You suspected that about half the student body - and perhaps even some professors - held a burning fire for Ryomen Sukuna, and the other half simply wouldn’t admit to it.
And just as long as his list of admirers was his roster.
Or so the whispers claimed…‘His latest catch is actually the mother of-’ ‘They say he has five girls at once and they know about it but stay-’ ‘He swings both ways so what I’d give for a chance-’ ‘His longest relationship was two days and that’s because they begged him-’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’ ‘Stay away.’
Stay away.
You didn’t have to be told that to know.
It was an unspoken rule on campus, the lay of the land.
Quite the dichotomy, wasn’t it? Stay away from Ryomen Sukuna, unless he’s the one that approaches you first and then it’ll be like your wildest fever dream, your wettest, and when he finally leaves- well, weren’t you told to stay away?
That’s the way things were. And all any heartbroken ex-companion would get is a few soothing words by the very same people who would turn around and make an example out of you.
‘Didn’t you see what happened to so and so…? Stay away.’
He was like a guilty pleasure that most people knew better of, knew would become an addiction. However, still indulged in anyway.
And so here you were. Cooped up in some dimly-lit frat party, cramped until every breath felt like it was singed with the copious amounts of alcohol around you, surrounded by booming beats and bellowing boys. In nothing but the most sinful dress you’d stowed away for a night just like this. Though you had to give yourself some credit- you didn’t wear this just for Sukuna, that’d only happened to be a happy accident!
In fact, you hadn’t even been expecting to meet him here.
Sure, it was the fraternity that he was the leader of, but Sukuna was always quite the…busy man. To put it lightly.
No—when your friends had urged you into this very party, you’d worn it with the thought of another man in mind. None other than your two-timing, two-toned, two-inched ex Zenin Naoya.
Your relationship was never meant for a happy marriage with two kids and a house that had a picket fence, but the straw that surely broke the camel’s back was about a week ago when you’d sneakily scrolled through his social media likes. And say whatever you want about privacy, but the multiple other girls he was entertaining and the deplorable podcasts about women he’d been secretly listening to let you say whatever you wanted.
And your first words to Naoya afterwards had been that you wanted to break up. Your second had been cussing him out.
Which was why, when Utahime had told you that he’d be attending (likely to try and pick up another poor girl), you’d immediately rifled through your closet for this skimpy dress you knew he’d hate. And still jerk off to later.
Speaking of…how ironic was it that you’d run from one red flag and straight into the arms of another.
The thought mulls lazily in your brain, before it’s quickly overtaken by the feeling of Sukuna resting his hands just over the small of your back. Something stirs carnally at the pit of your stomach, and you don’t think you’ve felt this way for a long time - not even when you were still with your ex.
“Prove it.” You blurt out before you can stop yourself.
He stops, raising those brows of his again.
And you don’t hesitate a single second before looping both arms around Sukuna’s neck and bringing him closer to you. And the hulking man lets you manhandle him as you please, lets your lips whisper just a breath’s distance away from his. In the distance you think you can hear a few gasps, feel a few stares. “Prove that I want you. Badly.”
And Ryomen Sukuna’s realizing that he didn’t need the alcohol, not really.
Not when he was already drunk on you.
His lips are on yours before you can say anything else.
Your first time meeting Ryomen Sukuna ended up with you pushed into the bedroom at his frat house and holding onto the headboard so that it won’t break against the wall. Bang-bang-bang. He’d lifted your trembling hands off of them, eventually, and placed them between your legs to roll over your clit. You don’t think he cared for a single sultry moment if any of his frat brothers happened to hear.
In fact, with the way that he’d been plunging his massive girth between your legs (the rumors really hadn’t exaggerated!) you’d almost wondered if he wanted them to hear. You wouldn’t be surprised.
Sukuna fucked hard, fast.
He made you stupid on his cock and chased his high like an absolute madman- though, that’s not to say he was a selfish lover. No—perhaps for his own ego, you were made to cum at least thrice on his fat, throbbing length.
And after the deed was done he’d rolled over to the side of the bed and tugged off the sticky condom. Discarding of it into the nearby trashcan, Sukuna rifled through his bedside cabinet for some wet wipes.
Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t the type of after-sex cuddles and aftercare, you’d come to learn. As he’d handed them over to you gruffly, and flicked at his lighter to burn up a cigarette.
Taking a deeeep drag of it, he turns towards you and brings his lips so close that you think he might just kiss you—only to puff out a smoky cloud in your face. “Inhale.” You do as he says, and let the fumes burn your throat. The side of his lips were quirking up in a smirk, “Mmm, good.” Sukuna gestures at his walk-in closet, one that you’d been eyeing for the sheer luxury of it when you’d first entered. “Might wanna find a t-shirt in there, your dress is a little…”
You looked at the sad heap of silky fabric on the carpet - torn now. “And whose fault is that?”
“Heh, just go get yourself a t-shirt, girlie.” Sukuna sits back on the headboard, and you’re appreciatively eyeing his half-naked figure. Prominent pecs. Ladder-like abs. Tattoos that stand out against his golden, tannish skin. He’d tugged on a pair of black boxers by now that did nothing to hide the happy trail of dark pink hair that you had your nose pressed up to minute ago. “Or don’t.” He looks at you with a sleazy smile- shit, he’d caught you staring. “I don’t mind.”
“S-sure ya don’t.” You’re managing out, tight.
And almost robotically, you manage to pull yourself onto your wobbly legs and take one step—Sukuna chuckles to himself as you stumble.
With a glare thrown over your shoulder, you walk into his closet. About as large as your entire dorm. Rows upon rows. Shelves upon shelves. Clothes upon designer clothes that made you wonder just how loaded a future professional wrestler is.
There were brands on his shelves that you couldn’t even recognize but knew were high-end simply from looking at their logo. Gawking, you flip past a few hangers - Versace, Burberry, Burberry, Gucci, Loro Piana, Dior, Dior, Dior, Dior-
Eventually, you simply give up to snatch the (hopefully) least expensive thing you could find: a wrestling hoodie with colorful logos on its front and ‘Sukuna’ emblazoned across the back.
The fabric was oh-so-soft in your hands, made of pure cotton that tempted you to tug it on your body as soon as possible. Oh, you’re marveling at the way the ending hem of it reaches well past your torso, engulfing you like some sort of blanket. Experimentally, you’re pulling the hoodie flap over your head and giggling at the way it droops down all the way to your nose. Unable to help yourself, you tug the sleeves up to where your wrists were and press the pink fabric to your nose.
Strawberries.
What a smell for such a guy.
“Fuck-” You’re whispering into the fabric, slightly muffled. The rush you were feeling gets dampened down a bit as you remember where you are, “I’m getting way too ahead of myself.”
When you’re finally walking out of the closet, Sukuna was lounging on his king-sized bed and scrolling through his phone. You take a moment to admire him like this- his long limbs stretched across the mattress, hair still sex-ruffled, your nail marks prominent down his shoulders, hands hugging a pillow to his chest.
He looked as if he was carved by the heavens themselves. Though he fucked like the devil.
He’s flicking his eyes casually your way, eyebrows slightly raising as he takes in your attire. “Nice choice.” Sukuna hums, voice deep with sex. “Didn’t think ya had it in you.”
And then he’s patting the empty side of the bed once more.
More, his eyes said. He wants you even more.
You almost instinctively take a step forwards before-
“Actually-” You start, fighting to keep your words steady. You keep yourself rooted in front of his closet and fidget with your fingers. “Before we do anything more, I wanted to make some things clear.”
“Mn.” He’s turning his phone off with a slight sigh, placing his hand atop his head.
Sukuna says nothing more, and you take it as a signal for you to continue. Taking a deep inhale, “I don’t really do this one-night stand thing often- not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Heartbeat quickening at the way his lazy smile grows, you don’t know why he made you feel the need to explain yourself. “But since we’re-”
“And who says we’re a one-night stand?”
Your heart does something funny with its tempo, “Wh-what?”
He tilts his head as if analyzing you, almost feline with his movement. Sukuna’s pinkish tongue darts out to wet his lips, still sweet with the taste of your pussy. “What if I want two nights? Three? Four? What’re you gonna do then, girlie?”
“Th-then-” You’re clenching your fists—fuck, it made it so hard when he was looking at you like that. “Then you’d have to get tested.”
And that…seems to make him pause.
“What?”
“Then you’d have to get tested, duh.” You’re crossing your arms in front of your chest - oh, it was quite amusing to watch the Ryomen Sukuna scramble for words. And you can’t help the spike of satisfaction, as he so-very-obviously didn’t expect that. “And we’d have to set boundaries. And share schedules. And you’d have to tell me if you meet up with another one of your ‘friends’ so that we can get tested again.”
“…”
“…”
Without warning, he bursts out laughing. “Thorough, aren’t ya?”
He wipes away a tear of mirth from the right side of his face and- c’mon! You honestly didn’t think it was that funny! Sure, you hadn’t had any…arrangements like this before but you couldn’t have been too far off for the requirements?
“What are you-” But as you start to protest Sukuna only guffaws even louder.
“Alright, alright-” He’s raising up a hand as if to tell you to stop before his (well-toned) sides start to split. It’s only once you take a step back and huff n’ puff yourself into silence that the man finally starts to calm down. Looking down at his lap, “Damn- fuck, I’ve never had my boner killed so fast.”
“It’s just the requirements.” You’re grumbling.
“Girl, I might as well cut off all my ah- ‘friends’ as you so-nicely put it and marry you.” Quite dramatic, but alright. You notice that he doesn’t push back against your boundaries, however. Sukuna stares you down, eyes twinkling with something that you couldn’t quite discern. “And what exactly would you like to call our little relationship then?”
“Friends-with-benefits, what else?”
“Mm, I like it.”
“And nothing more- no marrying any time soon.” You shudder when you think of your last failed relationship.
Sukuna grins, “Keh- don’t have to worry about that.”
.
.
.
“Okay-” Utahime slams! all one-thousand pages of Shoko’s anatomy textbook down on the cafeteria table, rattling your trays and making the surrounding students glance at your trio. You’re watching as her glass of orange juice splashes precariously around the rim and inches one watery hand towards the pages of the book. “-spill.”
You’re startling at her sudden interrogation, “What?”
And to your horror, even Shoko puts aside her medical notes to pay full attention to the commotion between her friends. Both of them staring—squarely at you.
“You heard me.” Utahime crosses her arms, “Something’s up with you these days- and we want to know what.”
Shoko nods, sighing the way she did whenever she was assigned a particularly difficult medical case to discern. “Sudden glow about you- likely a mix of estrogen and dopamine boosts, slightly dazed look in your eyes, increased screen time, unconscious smiles, unexplained disappearances at odd times of night.” She taps her pen on her chin, “Science says you have a boyfriend.”
Utahime gasps, “And we haven’t heard about it?” Throwing an arm around a deadpan Shoko, who says nothing when the other girl shakes her to and fro. “We- we, your very best friends since freshman year, haven’t heard about him.”
“So who is it? I’m curious.” Shoko probes.
“Tell us or I cry-”
“It’s no one.” You’re finally managing a choke out, to which you’re met with the most dramatic groans from both your friends. This time, they’re loud enough to garner the attention of over half this section of the cafeteria- and in your peripheral vision, you swear you could feel the intensity of two crimson eyes…
Your eyes flick to the side - and there’s your first mistake.
Utahime gasps, kneeling on the bench to look over Shoko’s head. “He’s there-” Above your frantic pleas for her to just settle down, “Don’t lie, I saw your eyes move! He’s there I just know it-”
You grab onto her dress and start tugging, “Uta, for heaven’s sake just sit- down-”
“Hmmm, the only ones there are Professor Yaga- no. Todo- no. That PhD student, Higuruma- maybe.” As her options dwindle, she sweeps her eyes. “Ijichi- no, eugh. No offense, my dear, it’d just get so troubling to have to peg him all the time.”
You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “U-Utahime, oh my god!” Even Shoko simply lets it happen in amusement.
Until finally, her eyes waft over the group of fraternity brothers that sat tall amongst the rest of the students. She wrinkles her nose at them, “One of the Curses Epsilon boys- no way, you’re smarter than that.”
They were such a boisterous bunch. Murmuring what were most likely innuendos with each other, clapping each other on the backs with guffaws. Almost handsomely stupid the way they kept looking to their pink-haired leader for approval. Occasionally, someone from a neighboring table would walk up to them in an attempt to talk to Sukuna - and the entire table would fall over themselves to erupt in wolf howls.
You were almost thankful for the way Utahime had given you the excuse to stare right at him. The way he’d wave off whichever newcomer, the way he’d roll his eyes at his friends’ antics. You’re realizing that his group was mostly composed of athletes, evidenced by the team jerseys and the trays upon trays of food were wolfing down.
Sukuna, noticeably, wasn’t wearing his wrestling hoodie.
The thought makes something shift at the pit of your stomach.
“Oh my god, it’s one of them-” Utahime’s following your line of sight with something akin to horror, and even Shoko seems to be rapt with an attention that she didn’t ever have in her classes.
Both of them had easily let their eyes slip past the boys, it seems. And it’s only once they saw your lingering gaze, only once they saw that familiar smile across your face, that they’re realizing.
Widened eyes slipping back to the rambunctious table.
You snap your eyes to your purple-haired friend once you register her words, “N-no, wait-”
“You stuttered!” She squeals, and you don’t know whether it’s out of excitement at the gossip or sheer fear. She turns to Shoko, “She stuttered, right? I’m not dreaming? She stuttered?”
Shoko nods, “She stuttered.”
Utahime whirls back to face you, “You didn’t even stutter when you told off that asshole Naoya- thank you for that recording by the way, it was quite the pleasure to listen to.” Shaking her head as if to make herself get back on topic, “Either way, are you or are you not dating one of the Curses Epsilon boys?”
“I am…” You pause, “-not.”
They both groan at your response. Utahime even reaches over the table to shake you by the shoulders, “Tell us- I can- tell- when- you- lie-”
“No- no listen!” You’re defending yourself, swatting away her grabby hands. “I’m really not dating one of them, promise! It’s just…”
Shoko asks, “Just?”
You sigh, there was no getting out of this now. “Remember that party we went to at their house a few weeks ago?” Continuing as they nod, your heartbeat starts to accelerate as you realize you’re getting to the meat of the story. “Right- and remember how I disappeared halfway through the night and told you that Akari dragged me off somewhere?”
Utahime gasps, “I have connected the dots.”
Shoko frowns, “You haven’t connected shit.”
“I’ve connected them.” She replies, “I always assumed you ended up hooking up with someone that night and didn’t think much of it. Now you’re telling me that it was one of them-”
“Keep your voice down!” You plead, “But yes, it was…and the thing is that one night turned into two, two turned into three.” Your skin starts to heat up as you remember just last night when you’d snuck out to be let in through the back door of Curses Epsilon. To be pressed onto all fours and ruthlessly ploughed into- “But look, the point is that now we’re kinda…sorta…friends-with benefits.”
They gasp in unison.
Utahime’s all but standing on the bench once more, “Who is it-”
“Whose dick do I need to cut off.” And Shoko is, too.
You put your face into your hands with a groan as they start listing off names.
“No.”
“Choso?”
“No.”
“Larue?”
“No.”
“Kenjaku?”
“No.”
“It surely can’t be fucking Sukuna-” Both of them look at you, look at the impression on your face. And they turn to each other with serious expressions, “She’s fucking Sukuna.”
There was no use in telling them to keep their volumes down now - people turned their heads your way and started to whisper. You could only imagine what the rumor mill was conjuring up now. Hell, even Sukuna himself casually flicked his head your way in interest.
And you wished you could sink even deeper into your seat.
“Did you see that-” Utahime hisses.
“I saw.” Shoko replies.
And the purple-haired girl reaches over to clasp your hands, “He was giving you that look- oh my god. He looked like he was about to eat you up—” And you think that Utahime is perhaps the only one who’d look over and glare at Ryomen Sukuna the way she did just then, “You know what they say about him, right?”
“I’m well aware.” You breeze off, “It’s nothing serious- just no-strings-attached fun, promise. I could break it off at any time and not feel a thing, and I know the same goes for him.”
Utahime scoffs, “Yeah but it’s not like he’s seeing you that often, right?” A pause. “Right?”
“Well…”
You’d been saved in that very instance by a bzzzz—! in your pocket: a text from the man of the conversation himself. And with a quick apology to your friends (you loved them, you really did, but you supposed that was enough interrogation for the day) and a glance at your calendar to make sure you didn’t have any more classes for the day—you were racing out of the cafeteria.
Followed suspiciously closely by a certain pink-haired wrestling superstar.
You didn’t quite care who saw what or thought what, because a few hours later found you back in your single dorm room.
Fucked stupid.
Sex still hung in the air.
You were sprawled out across your humble single bed, heaving as if you’d just ran a marathon. Head sinking into the pillows. Cunt all drooling with your splashin’ slick. Still reeling from the aftershocks of your multiple highs.
With Sukuna’s athletic stamina, however, he seemed to be barely affected. Taking a light drag of his cigarette (you’re sure the building had a no smoking policy…), he looks over your dorm room with faint interest. Much smaller than his but also much…cozier, you had to admit.
Lived in.
He takes in the polaroids of you and your friends, all the cutesy lights, the columns of books. Sukuna stares hard at one of the pictures above your headboard—it was one of you, Utahime, and Shoko after shotgunning a few beers. On the verge of throwing up.
“Cute- the dorm, I mean. S’nice.” He says, blowing out a streamline of smoke at the photograph. “This purple-haired one s’the one that was screamin’ about us in the cafeteria today?”
“You heard that?” You exclaim.
“Girl, the entire cafeteria and Gakuganji’s senile ass heard y’all.” He rolls his eyes with a grin, “Dunno whether you’re louder then or…” Such a devilish, devilish grin. “-here.”
“Shut up.”
“You certainly didn’t-”
“They threatened to cut off your balls if you broke my heart, y’know.” You don’t quite know why you’re telling him - Sukuna was probably used to the threats of his love interests by this point. You’re turning to your side and facing him, trying not to shiver at the way his eyes glide appreciatively down your exposed body. “Not that there’s gonna be anything at stake to break.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
“And what if?” He asks you, to which you only look at him in confusion. Sukuna takes his sweet time puffin’ on his cigarette once more before satiating your curiosity, “What if I break your heart?”
You think about it for a little bit, “I won’t cut off your balls.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll cut off your entire dick and feed it to you myself.”
The cigarette falls from his hands and onto your carpeted floor- which Sukuna hastens to put out with an uncharacteristic yelp. You guessed wrestling scholarships didn’t cover burnt-down dorm rooms, and you have to stifle a giggle at his actions.
“You-” He pants out, finally looking up after picking the scorched nub between his fingers and throwing it into your trashcan. Almost glaring those rosy eyes down at you, “You think you’re soooo funny, huh, mama?”
You chuckle, “I do.”
“Well, yer lucky you’re cute.” He grumbles to himself, at least- you think that’s what he grumbles to himself. Because the moment you’re looking at Sukuna in slight surprise, he turns his head.
You see nothing but the sharp edge of his jawline, those high cheekbones, the tips of his ears that were flushed with…the sex? Surely? Almost as if he knew what you were thinking, Sukuna brings a hand up to cover them under the pretense of scratching his sweaty undercut. “Never met anyone with this much fuckin’ audacity.”
You yelp, “H-hey!”
“Hey yerself.” And then he’s heaving himself up and digging underneath your own fucking bed as if it was his. How strange, this familiarity. The two of you had only known each other for a few weeks (though you had to admit you had spent considerable hours together) and here Sukuna was rifling through your room like nothing - you just wasn’t sure whether that was a him thing or…He’s finally pulling out—
“That- that’s my rose toy?!”
“Yeah, let’s give ‘er a spin.”
.
.
.
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” Itadori Jin’s voice echoed out from the other line, almost reaching a fever pitch in defensiveness.
Sukuna rolls his blush-red eyes, he’d been standing outside this godforsaken café on a call with his brother for what felt like hours now. With you inside and waiting. All warm. All…fucked-out—anyway! The point was that you were inside all comfortable, and he was a hulking figure looming outside some frilly café grumbling profanities underneath his breath.
In his defense, it was after one of your ‘hangouts’, alright!
It was just another day with you. After he’d pumped deep into your lungs, Sukuna just-so-happened to hear your stomach rumble in hunger. And he was the one to have suggested taking a stroll down to the lil’ café down the block. It was packed with college students, and he didn’t really care who saw - besides, bearing through the gaudy interior theme and re-play of music certainly not his taste was almost bearable for the pleasant surprise in your ears.
And the refueling, of course. The main reason he was taking you here was because (surprise, surprise!) a house full of college men didn’t quite have the nutrition needed to last a few more rounds. And Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t done with you just yet.
He just didn’t expect to have been assaulted by a phone call from his older brother the very second he’d taken a step inside. And Sukuna had told you to find a seat for the two of you, deciding to take the call outside. He knew his brother wouldn’t give up if he declined the call.
They always were alike, Sukuna and Jin.
Sure, maybe not in personality - Jin was always a bit of a goody-two-shoes, though he could hold his own in a fight. Sukuna was the one everyone said they had to watch out for.
The one that didn’t get invited to birthday parties by fearful parents, the one picked last during team sports because they said he’d start a brawl, the one visited only by his brother and his father the first time he’d ended up in the ER after a fight, the one who only had those two to cheer at his wrestling matches. Only ever those two.
Whatever.
Same rosy hair.
Same features (for the most part, at least. Sukuna’s constant trips to the gym and the ER had resulted in him having a rather more rugged look than his twin).
Same stubbornness.
They’d ended up going to different universities, with Jin attaining a scholarship for marine biology a few hours away. Which meant that family functions weren’t quite as frequent as they used to be, but he could still hear it in the man’s voice - that stubbornness.
It made the younger of the two brothers feel the heat creeping up on the back of his neck, slightly squirming as Jin admonished him—“I’m just saying that you sound happier than usual-”
“Jin.”
“And that’s a good thing!” He could practically envision the bespectacled man throwing his hands in the air, trying to hold back his smile. “Hell- Ryo, it’s a wonderful thing! You finally have someone making you happy! You’ve finally met someone special! You finally have someone in your life-”
“I don’t have trouble getting around.” He grumbles, and—well. Ryomen Sukuna isn’t quite the type to explain himself, but with his brother…
“Ryo.”
“Alright, alright!” Sukuna bursts out, and a mother nearby grabs her child by the hand and speedwalks away. “Alright, I haven’t met up with anyone else! I’ve cut off all of my ah- friends, for lack of a better word.” He could hear the smug hum of his brother, “But that’s not because it’s special or anything, it’s just because…”
Jin urges, “Go on…?”
“Because s’just convenient, alright?” He’s finally answering, “S’too much of a hassle to get fuckin’ tested after each one, so I might as well only have her in my life- ah wait, fuck, I didn’t mean it like that-”
“I knew it.” Comes the squeal, “Listen, Ryo, I just don’t want your stubbornness to get in the way of something special-”
“And I don’t want to hear yer voice- goodbye, old man.”
The ringing tone to denote that the call has ended is much more soothing than his brother’s voice, he decides. And he takes a few deep breaths before tucking his phone back in his pocket- turning it on silent mode.
He turns around to step inside and—there you are.
Dressed in that hoodie of his that he’d forgotten to take back from you. The air of someone that’d just been properly fucked. Through the glass, he sees you staring at the other people outside. He strays his gaze himself to see what you see- you’re chuckling at that little boy who skips along the pavement, you gasp at the delivery driver with a stack of boxes who almost trips, you coo at the elderly couple walking their dog. Hand-in-hand.
Sukuna looks down at his own empty hands.
Scarred and calloused.
Before he’s reaching his dominant one upwards and pushing open the swinging café doors. You look up from the booth you’d chosen for yourselves as he enters, waving him in the right direction. It was one by the window, he notices, though in the very corner of the place as if you’d wanted to hide yourself away.
Perhaps hide the two of you away.
Hm…Sukuna thinks, rubbing at his chest. And thrusting both hands into his pockets, he’s sauntering right up to you.
He’s not blind to the stares he garners from some of the other customers, and though any other time he might have thrown a stray wink or two - and honestly, nothing was stopping him now - he simply sides into the seat opposite you. “Sorry ‘bout that, mama- emergency calls.”
“Emergency?” You raise your brows in amusement, peering at the man opposite you as if you were analyzing every inch of him. And he almost couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago, you’d been shaking and whining underneath him. “I don’t know anyone named ‘Emergency’ at our school.”
“Goes to another school.” He quips, knees bumping against yours as he stretches them out underneath the table. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous, girlie~”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
In almost no time, the waitress is bounding up to your table and jotting down your orders. He orders his coffee black, no sugar—and you roll your eyes at him.
The older woman then coos down at the little interaction, “Oh, you know we’ve got a special offer just this week in honor of our upcoming fifth anniversary? 100% off on all desserts for couples!” Her eyes wrinkle beautifully at the edges, “Would you two perhaps be…”
You open your mouth, “Oh, we’re actually-”
“Completely in love.” Sukuna interrupts you casually, his large hand settling over yours on top of the table. “Maddeningly. We’ll take one of everything for the lady and a strawberry shortcake for me, thanks.”
“Oho, you two.” She chuckles, walking off. “Ah, young love~”
You watch as she leaves—and snap your head towards Sukuna so fast that you think you may have gotten whiplash. “You-”
“It’s for the offer, don’t overthink it.” He lets go of your hand and crosses his arms. You almost miss the heat of it - was the air conditioning in this place too high? You’re sinking your hands into the sleeves of your- his hoodie, and Sukuna’s slouching in his seat. “Take it home- all the desserts, share it with your friend or whatever. It’s for you, anyway.”
“Right.” You’re not quite sure what to say- “Thank you?”
It’s a rather long and awkward silence that follows.
You attempt to break it by grasping for some shred of conversation, “So ah- is everything alright?”
He raises a pink brow in question.
And you don’t know how he manages to do it - how he manages to make your veins bubble and bolt inside of you with just a single look. “The ah- the call, I mean.” You’re squirming in your seat at his half-lidded gaze, so intense. He always looked at you with this certain fire, whether in bed or…here. “You were just out there for so long, I hope it wasn’t anything serious.”
He rests his chin on one hand and tilts his head, “Not worried about me, are you? If it was anything serious?”
“And if I was?”
“You shouldn’t.”
To which you furrow your brows in confusion, “What do you mean? Of course I’d care if something bad happened to you.”
Sukuna only holds your gaze, his expression unreadable.
He reaches a hand down his chest - right over his heart - and lightly rubs that spot. Finally looking away from you, the frat leader answers. “No- no, it’s nothing serious. Just a…friend.”
“I see.” You still.
“You said I could still have ‘friends’, right?” He asks, a note in his voice that was imperceptible. Sukuna looks at you with a meaning that you didn’t fully understand, and you’re realizing that the two of you had been leaning over the table for quite some time. “Or has that changed?”
It seems like an age before you break his eye contact, “Nothing has changed.”
Sukuna leans back in his seat, “I see.” There’s silence between you both once he reaches into his pocket and starts scrolling absent-mindedly through his phone. “Then yeah- it was a friend that called. I’ll get tested afterwards though, don’t you worry that pretty head of yours over it.”
“Good.”
A few more minutes of silence.
He can’t bear it. “Lemme eat you out in the bathroom as an appetizer before our food?”
“Be quick.”
.
.
.
“Truth or dare! Truth or dare! Truth or dare!” Utahime chants, jovial words slurring into a nearly-incomprehensible mess as she claps her hands. Messily, she’s pulling you and a few others into a haphazard circle on her bedroom floor.
All cooped up in a room that was decidedly not designed to hold this many people. The air dimmed with LED lights and cheap alcohol. Bass thumping throughout the bones of her apartment - it was a small get-together that’d turned into a large get-together that’d turned into friends of friends of friends both invited and uninvited
You swear you’d seen a few graduates sneak themselves onto the living-room-turned-dance-floor before you were being pulled into her room by your inebriated friend. One who, as the host, was deciding what the game of the night would be. “Truth or dare!”
Pronouncing, more like.
Shoko rolls her eyes, “Your ability to turn into a twelve-year-old when you’re drunk both fascinates and abhors me.”
“Jokes on you I don’t know what that word means.” Utahime sticks her tongue out, to which most of the group giggles.
“But seriously- are we twelve?”
“Fine…” Utahime grumbles, and clicks her fingers as if happening across a sudden epiphany. “Dare or drink, then!” She’s peering towards Shoko with a smug smirk, “How’s that for all adult and mature, hm?”
“That’s almost worse.”
You’re taking the opportunity to sweep a look at the (likely) players: some more of your friends, Ijichi, Haibara, Higuruma from the PhD students, a few sweet sorority girls, some strangers, one Curses Epsilon member-
Your eyes widen as you take in the long-haired man—Choso, you believe his name was.
He catches you staring and smiles at you shyly, an expression that you hope you’re returning without it looking too much like a shocked grimace.
You’d seen this very man around Sukuna sometimes, and he seemed to be one of the quieter amongst the bunch. Below Sukuna in terms of rank, certainly, they seemed to have an almost brotherly relationship that stood out to you when you looked at the group. And, listen! It’s not that you didn’t realize a member of his fraternity could attend parties - in fact, Curses Epsilon was synonymous with parties.
So you should have expected this. So you should have been prepared for this.
But the fact that he was here…a part of you couldn’t help but wonder whether that meant Sukuna was here, too…
What that meant he was doing…
Who…
You’re startled out of your little reverie by a call of your name- and to your horror, you’re realizing that you’d been staring right at Choso. The man was squirming before you, his ears tinged just the slightest rosy shade.
Heart thundering at your throat, you look away and turn back to Utahime. Slightly breathless, “Wh-what?”
“You’re up first!”
She’s pointing down at the carpeted floor, which had a glinting vodka bottle in the middle that’d been spun, it seems. Its transparent circular nozzle stares you down in an almost-accusing way and makes you shift uncomfortably—you didn’t even know that they’d begun spinning bottles yet. And whoever was to fall victim to the end of its vermicular spine was the first up for their dares.
And it just-so-happened to be you.
You gape, “I-I…”
“C’mon, c’mon! You can’t back out now-” Utahime taps her chin and pretends to think, “I dare you to—”
“Fucking hell…” You already know that this wasn’t going to end up well for you.
And just as you expected, her eyes slide over to meet another pair of eyes—dark, doe-like eyes that had been fixated on you ever since you’d been fixated on them. Subconsciously or not. She smiles as she drinks in the sheer intensity that Choso had been staring at you with, “I dare you to make out with the person sitting opposite you for ten seconds.”
Your brows furrow, “Sitting opposite…” Eyes lifting up to meet—his. “Oh.”
“Oh.” Choso’s pink lips part, the tips of his ears furiously red.
And there’s a few seconds of silence- between you two, but not the drunken students that surround you two. They erupt into cheers and wolf whistles, ribbing at a quiet Choso Kamo to get on with it.
As you stare, stunned, he peeks up at you through his long lashes. “W-would you mind?” His quiet voice was almost inaudible.
“I…don’t.” You find yourself answering, mouth moving faster than your brain can compute.
And before you know it, you’re rising to your feet and making your way to the middle of the circle. Those dark eyes widen as you draw nearer- so different from the red ones that you were used to.
Something in your stomach clenches, and you feel a strange buzz zing! throughout your entire body. You’re not sure whether you like it or not.
Choso himself starts to get closer to you, and your pulse quickens at his closing proximity. His eyes turn half-lidded as they flick to your lips and back up to your face, like he was making sure that you were okay with this. Tentative. Almost…shy. You’re admiring the tousled look of his hair, that tremble of his lips, and the way his eyeliner makes him look so soft.
You wanted to run. You wanted to kiss someone. You wanted to run. “I- I really don’t.”
Choso kisses you.
For a beat. Two.
One of his ringed hands snake upwards to grip the column of your throat, and you’re parting your lips with a moan! Fuck, you were getting wet. Just in time for him to slip in his tongue and-
CRASH! THUD!
You’re wincing at the rush of light that assaults your retinas, and as you slowly blink back your vision- you realize that there were tears in them. Because of what, you’re not too sure. But you chalk it up to the harshness of the light as your eyesight clears back up.
And then you’re seeing—oh, it couldn’t have been a figment of your imagination.
You’d never mistake that cotton-candy hair anywhere.
Sukuna was on Choso, with the other man sprawled out on the ground and the rugged wrestler on top of him. Chest heaving. Skin flushed. A vein throbbing at his neck. His entire body was rigid and honed for a fight that he knew he was going to win. He had one tattooed hand gripping the front of Choso’s shirt, and the other pulled back mid-punch.
A punch that he was frozen in.
A punch that clearly hadn’t landed yet.
From what you’re surmising of the situation, Sukuna had pulled the other man off of you by his collar. From what you’re surmising of the situation, he was all but about to attack the other man just because he was kissing—
“Ryo.” You’re starting, a hand reaching out as if to stop the fight yourself.
Any and all floatiness from the liquor had now completely dissipated from your body, and you were only left coiling in thick, unyielding tension. Surprisingly, your voice doesn’t waver. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid or god help me-”
Almost as if jolted to life by the sound of your voice, Sukuna lets go of Choso in a single, jerky movement.
Though he doesn’t speak - and you’re almost thankful for it, you don’t know what you’d say to him. Instead you’re breaking out of your little trance and pushing aside Sukuna—yes, pushing him to the side so that you can get to Choso.
Stunned, he lets you move him.
He always has.
With both hands gently placed upon either side of Choso’s handsome face, you’re inspecting him for any injuries. He flushes slightly at your touch. And - tactfully - no one nearby says a single word about it. “I’m- I’m alright.” Choso says, his tone slightly hoarse.
But you don’t give up until you’re completely and utterly sure that he’s okay. “Hm, well alright.” Finally letting up, you start to move yourself- and only then do you realize that you’d been straddling Choso’s hips. Hurrying to scramble off, “O-on behalf of him, I apologize.”
You’re lightly bowing and he stops you with a hand at your shoulder- only to glance at Sukuna and let you go as if you burned. “No, no! It’s my fault for not knowing-”
“Don’t worry.” You spare a glance at Sukuna, who had his eyes downcast and his expression revealing nothing. “There’s nothing to know.”
And that…that makes the Ryomen Sukuna flinch—
As if he’d just been stabbed.
As if the temperature in the room had dropped to freezing.
As if you’d plunged your hand right through his ribcage and torn out his heart.
But you couldn’t find it in yourself to care at his point. “Again- I’m so sorry.” Turning back to Choso, who’d been watching the exchange with side eyes - right along with half of the party that’d turned up from the living room now at the whispers of a commotion here. Especially one with the wrestling star—and over a girl at that! “And about that ah…” You gesture at his hips…the ones you’d been straddling.
Choso blushes even deeper, waving his hands in front of him frantically. “No- no, I didn’t mind! I mean- I mean, it’s alright and you don’t need to apologize! But you didn’t need to apologize anyway because I didn’t-”
“Man.” Shoko rests a hand on his shoulder, “Stop talking.”
He immediately clicks his jaw shut.
The next thing you’re doing, you don’t even know if you even fully thought it through. Because one second you’re standing up—and the next you’ve got your hand wrapped around Sukuna’s waist—and the next you’re dragging him through the packed party—
Through the crowd that turns their head to look at your unlikely duo, that turns their head to watch the gruff leader of the wrestling team be led out as if he was a naughty child.
Sukuna lets you take a few steps out of the apartment’s front door, before he’s halting in his tracks and gripping onto your waist instead. Not hard enough that it hurts, not gentle enough for you to be diverted anywhere but his one-track destination to…well, you weren’t quite sure.
“Ryo- I mean, Sukuna—” You squeal as your heels click-clack! down the stairs. You don’t pull yourself free from him, because you know he would let you. “Sukuna, I demand to know where we’re going-”
“There’s nothing to know.”
Your stomach drops.
It’s the last thing he says. The only.
And you can only follow as Sukuna draaaags you out into the night-lit street, cars lining the pavements like the straps of lingerie on a faceless body. An outstretched. A ready.
You’re recognizing the gleaming black body of his new Audi in an instant - you would anywhere, to be honest. It took up about half the street. Imposing, just like him. It always did make your heart skip a beat to see it parked outside whatever rager you were attending for the night. Just as soon as you’re registering the car, you’re having your back pushed up against it-
“What are you-” You gasp out, before his lips are on yours.
Furious. Feral. Fighting to open them roughly with his own mouth, he’s taking a single look at your prettily parted lips and spiiiiitting straight onto your tongue- before stuffin’ it with his own tastebuds, just in the way that Choso was about to mere minutes early.
You muffle out, “M-mmpf- Sukuna!”
“Ryo.” He rasps, blindly unlocking the door and pushing you into the spacious backseat. “You know m’always your Ryo.”
That night he fucks you harder, faster than any time before.
As if he was claiming every inch of you.
And you don’t end up going home for the night—no, you end up at Sukuna’s instead. And if he made you moan his name even louder than usual, well, it’s only in the morning that you realize that Choso’s bedroom was right next door.
.
.
.
Ryomen Sukuna had flowers—
An entire bouquet of red roses that he’s sure the florist ripped him off for - surely something grown out of the dirt couldn’t be that expensive?! But he did have to admit that it looked wonderful taking up more than half of his backseat—the very same backseat he’d fucked you senseless in not too many nights ago.
The two of you hadn’t seen each other properly since Utahime’s party.
What with his wrestling practices for the upcoming tournaments, and your finals rounding the corner. It’s honestly by sheer miracle that Coach Kashimo had cancelled today’s training for some reason or the other (he honestly didn’t look too closely, merely glancing at the email before driving to the nearest florist whilst texting you to ask whether you were free). And, well, here he was…
So fucking pathetic in his excitement to meet you that he’d forgotten the damned flowers in his car!
Sukuna hopes that they weren’t wilted as he struggles to put on his ripped jeans, discarded on your bedroom floor right along with the rest of his clothes. He’s looking around frantically for his t-shirt, when you glance over at him from the bed.
And he doesn’t see the flicker of hurt in your eyes.
“Leaving so soon, Ryo?”
“Uh huh.” He’s absent-mindedly responding—where the fuck where his socks? Did he even need socks just to go down to his car-
You bite down on the inside of your cheek, “Another appointment?” Another person, is what you really wanted to ask, but…
“Something important that I forgot.” Sukuna replies, looking underneath your bed and ah- there they were. He feels you sitting up on the bed, blanket clutched to your naked chest, as he sits on the mattress with his back turned and finishes dressing up. “Fuckin’ hell, can’t believe I even came up here forgetting-”
“Right.” Your tone was clipped.
“Should’ve gone down the second I remembered but-”
“Should have.”
“Because it’s mad urgent-”
“More than me.”
“I just got a little distracted, y’know?” The pink-haired man glances over his shoulder with a teasing smirk, slightly frowning at the way you turn your head away from him. Hm…he attempts to lighten the mood, “S’all your fault, girlie~”
“Sukuna.”
And that makes him slightly wither in on himself. That tone. That name. Trying to get a good look at your face, he leans towards you. “What’s wrong…?”
“I think we should end this.”
Everything.
Everything was wrong.
Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t fight your decision, Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t try to get you to explain. He lets your words sink into his being like a pebble cast out in the vast and unceasing Blue—and he lets them fester within him just as mysteriously.
He’s walking out of your dorm a hollow man.
Right up to his car, he’s taking automatic steps. Where he flings the door open and grips the bundle of stems of those- of those fucking roses.
He wants to destroy them.
Sukuna’s hand trembles as he raises them high in the air to chuck- before his peripheral vision features two familiar faces. Unbreathing, he’s turning his head jerkily to the side and staring at them—matching crows’ feet, a slow hobble, the slightly hoarse laughter between a whispered conversation. A vision so private that he almost wants to look away, he didn’t know how you did it.
It scares him how quickly he recognizes the elderly couple to be the exact same one you’d been admiring from afar that one day at the café.
It scares him.
Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t know why he hands his heartbreak bouquet to the old couple that day. But he does remember one thing - the delighted smiles on both their faces, the way the old man had so-clearly wanted to hold the blushing, beautiful flowers. But he’d given them to his wife anyway.
Seeing the young man staring, the old man had winked.
A knowing smile on his face.
“Oh dear, oh dear.” To which the sweetly older woman had reached down to pluck! two blossoms from the bouquet. And without hesitating, she’d tucked one behind her husband’s ear—and then beckoned Sukuna to lean down to tuck the last one behind his. Rosy red against lovely pink.
His eyes widen as her slightly roughened hands cup his cheek.
Humming with a smile, “You are so easy to love, my dear.”
Something in him breaks a little at that very moment.
And Ryomen Sukuna drives the entire four hours it takes him to drive to Itadori Jin’s university, to damn-near bang down his apartment door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
“I’m coming, I’m coming! Jeez…” His older brother’s familiar voice - stubborn, so stubborn just like his calls out from inside the apartment. He doesn’t care that it’s 2AM and Jin’s neighbors would be complaining, right now he just…really needed his big brother.
He can hear the footsteps get even closer. “Who the hell is it at this time- I swear if it’s rent then I already paid it two weeks ag-”
The door clicks open.
Jin’s face freezes in surprise—before it’s dropping at the look on Sukuna’s face.
“Oh, Ryo.”
His arms are around the taller man’s instantly.
And if Itadori Jin felt his sweater drench where Sukuna’s face rested, then he doesn’t say a word about it.
“What did I tell you about keeping your someone special, Ryo?”
.
.
.
It’s the next day when you’re waking up to an incessant knocking at your door.
It pounds like the headache you’d been sporting all night.
And you’re getting up, your eyes swollen - not just from sleep (in fact, you don’t think you slept a single wink all night) - and your movements all sluggish. Looking down, you realize that your pyjamas- Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie, was still drenched in tears. Your blinks were heavy. You felt a mess.
You barely even wanted to get out of your bed, and you don’t think you would have had it not been for the sheer ferocity of the knocks.
Were they trying to break down your damn door?!
“C-coming!” You’re coughing out, sure you had a doorbell that was going unused. Disgruntled, you’re unlocking the door and reaching for the doorknob. “Jeez, Uta, I swear this isn’t really a good time if you’re going to-”
The first thing you see is red.
Red.
Red.
Red roses.
Bouquets of it lined every inch of your dorm’s corridor, as far as your eye could see, some even piled on top of each other, the largest held between Ryomen Sukuna’s trembling hands.
And the second thing you see is, well, red again.
The blush that dusts his handsome face, rivalling his pinkish locks. Sukuna takes a half-step forwards- before he seems to think better of it and lurches right back. His thick brows furrow in sincerity, as if he just wanted to make you feel his words— “I love you.” He pants, as if he’d just run here. And it feels like all the breath has been knocked out of your lungs. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you-”
“Oh, Ryo.”
And it’s all the confirmation Sukuna needs to let the bouquet in his hands drop down to the floor. Rustling. Letting the blossoms be replaced with something that is, to him, far more beautiful.
He crushes you so tightly into his embrace that you almost can’t breathe - nothing but the soft strawberry scent that engulfs you whole. And you almost don’t think you need to. Not right now. “I love you.”
“You idiot.” You choke out, “You idiot- you’re so- fucking- stupid.” You punctuate your words with punches to his chest, which makes it rumble with a chuckle. “And I’m even more stupid because I…”
“Yes?” Breathless.
“I love you even more, Ryo.”
He sighs with his entire soul and collapses in on his world—you.
A few minutes later.
What feels like absolutely no time later.
You’re finding your back laid flatly against your single bed - a humble compartment in your dorm room. But now it had you sprawled out across it and reaching for your rickety headboard to hang onto dear life, Sukuna kneeled at the foot of the bed and clawing at your tear-stained sweatpants.
Pulling at it.
Tearing through it.
Your whines intermingle with the rip-rip-riiiip of fabric once he’s exposing your naked legs. You were wearing nothing underneath it, and Sukuna’s fucking groaning as he opens up your thighs to take the heavenly sight in-between.
“Fuh-fuck…” You swear you see a line of glittering drool fall down the side of his mouth, one that Sukuna’s gulping back as soon as it comes. “Holy fuck, sweetheart, how do you look even tastier every time I see ya?”
You’re huffing, unable to stop yourself. “Maybe you’re just mixing me up with-”
“Don’t say that.” And though his voice was quiet, it was stern. It meant every word he was saying, “Never say that.”
Gliding his roughened hands down the tender inner parts of your thighs- you’re shivering as you feel every line and callus from his palms. Remnants of wrestling. The softness of holding you. It makes something in your heart lurch, “I-I just-”
“You don’t need to explain yourself.” Sukuna looks away with a light blush as he cuts you off, “But I do. We have much to talk about…but the one thing I need you to know is that ever since I met you, I have never, and will never, so much as look at anyone else.”
“Ryo—” You whimper, feeling the thick crowned edges of his thumbs inch towards your drippin’ core.
“And I want you to know that m’yours.” He nudges his handsome head closer, until he could breathe in the sultry scent of your pussy. You could feel the cold breeze of his inhale- “Soul…and body.”
And then he’s lavishing his loooong tongue out to lick a wet stripe at your clothed pussy.
Sluuuuuurp—! Such a greedy taste of your cunt. Before Sukuna’s drawing his muscle back in just to do it all over again - flick after flick where you were most tender. With the tip of his tastebuds he’s outlining your glistening crevice, and pinpointing them right where the knob of your clit was located.
You’re twitching as you feel him enter his lengthy tongue juuuust underneath the drenched fabric of your panties, before fishing it back out whenever he feels he got too close to your pussy.
“P-please-” You’re grabbing onto Sukuna’s head of pink hair, trying to move him even closer. “Want you even closer- stop teasing now.”
He rolls his eyes rudely, “Teasing? You think this is me teasing, sweetheart?” And before you can register it, he’s reeling his tongue all the way back into his mouth. Leaving your poor cunt all throbbing and completely untouched. “This is me teasing.” As you buck your hips pathetically with the desire for his ridged texture, “What I was doin’ earlier was just savoring, mama.”
You throat was thick with need, “But- but what is there to savor-”
“What the fuck are ya talking about?” One of his pink brows raise.
“I mean-” You hasten to explain, your entire body radiating pure heat and need. “You’ve already had me like this before-”
“Oh—” And suddenly, the most lecherous smile plasters across his attractive face - already slicked with copious amounts of wadded slick that sticks to him like some sort of adhesive. “Girlie, you don’t even know the half of what m’capable of.”
And before you know it—Sukuna’s rugged fingers come down to spank! right on top of your pussylips.
Before you know it, he’s clasping the side of your ass cheeks and flipping you right over as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. With one finger hooking onto your panties- you can distinctly sense when the wrestler seems to think better of it and instead bites his pearly white canines down on your soaked underwear.
You’re muffling out with your face pushed into your pillows, “Wh-what are you-”
Before he’s teeeeeeearing your panties right down with nothing but his mouth.
Exposing your quivering pussy all for him to see, smearin’ apart your folds with both his thumbs. He takes a few seconds to admire the slick that splashes out of your entrance, before spitting vertically down your slit.
Simply to add onto the mess.
It’s the only warning you’re getting before Sukuna completely surges in and shoves himself nose-deep between your puffy folds. Just the tip of his nose drags down the middle of your cunt from behind, and before you know it- his tongue is zig-zagging at your hole wiiiiiildly—
He’s like a madman. He’s like a man starved.
Gulping at the excess of your leaking sap and then munching himself even close to lap at the dewdrops of slick just about to fall out of you. They don’t even have to be pouring out of you for your greedy Sukuna to be gluing himself to your cunt.
Shovelling his tongue even deeper.
And when your tight orifice can’t take any more of him, he’s grunting out into your cunt and spitting.
“Fuck.”—He’s clenching his jaw and spitting out once more at the slight resistance of your hole. Just the way that Sukuna’s wet muscle was oh-so-thick, and he kept having to pry apart your pussy folds even further just to inch inside. Until you’re shivering at the feeling of his knobbly tastebuds dragging down your walls, “C’mon c’mon c’mon- just fucking take it my girl, I know you want to.”
“I swear your tongue got even bigger, Ryo-”
Your velvety walls close in on him, keeping his slippery tongue hostage while he only tries to ebb even deeper. He’s clenching his jaw at the slight resistance of your tight hole. “S’only been a day and she’s forgotten me this much?”
Fisting at the pillows, “I didn’t, it’s just you’re too big.”
“Appreciate the flattery, mama.” You could feel his grin against your softened flesh. “But it’s my fault.”
Instinctually, you’re raising your head off of the spit-drenched pillows to ask just what he meant-
“But I guess I hafta eat her out so she remembers this time, hm?”
But you didn’t have to ask for the answer.
You didn’t even have to think—honestly, you don’t think you can even, well, think by the time he’s got a hold of you.
Because Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on his promise—Ryomen Sukuna was going to do well on all his promises.
He was latching one ruthless hand onto the side of your hips and manhandling your hips to start gyratin’ down onto his open maw. Angling you in just the right position so that his swollen lips can latch onto your throbbing clit-
“Bet’cha didn’t know that m’a good multitasker.” He’s gurgling out, wads of slick n’ spittle clogging up his throat. And the thing was—Sukuna didn’t care how much he had to suffocate on your pussy, he fucking loved that shit.
“I-I don’t think I did.” You’re replying.
“And bet’cha didn’t know that I- fuck, I can reach in so deeeeeep.” The large muscle of his tongue swipes in so deeply inside of you- you can’t even fully comprehend whether he’d plunged inside all the way up to his chin because of how dumb he was fucking you.
Rough, hard strikes at all your most delicate spots inside.
Finishing off with the most sinful noises - it’s like the deeper he gets, the louder those noises get. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I r-reach yer- hah, g-spot this fast, hm?”
You’re furrowing your brows. Sure, you were slowly getting more and more dazed on his cock - but surely you weren’t that mindless that you wouldn’t notice? “Wait, but I don’t think you ever actually—oh.”
And then you’re feeling it.
And you’re realizing that Sukuna had timed it precisely for the middle of your sentence, when he can hear the effects of you stumbling and falling apart on his very tongue.
Mazing all the way inside as if searching for treasure, his thorough inches are spreading out your walls so well. Not leaving a single crevice unturned, a single drivelling orifice, a single bundle of nerves- that he’s honing in on and darting straight against.
Pushing down on the area of your g-spot, you’re suddenly jolted by the electricity of your pleasure. He snickers, “There it is.”
Crying out, “Th-that’s just mean, Ryo.”
“Th-th-that’s just mean.” Mocking, in a lilting pitch that was most certainly not reminiscent of your own. With a tough roll of his eyes, he’s only unfastened his maw to take you even deeper from behind. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could be meeeeean—fuckin’ meaner than you even even thought.”
“I-I think I know too well.” Or so you claim - but shit, Sukuna had never eaten you out like this before.
With his pointed chin jutting against the base of your treacly cunt, and his nose curving against your slit. Sukuna isn’t just thrusting his tongue inside you, he’s also making sure to flick and linger his tastebuds into any orifice he knew you were fragile at.
Again. Probing.
Again and again and again.
And with a smug chuckle, Sukuna claims. “Bet’cha didn’t know that I could go reeeeeal fast.” Until you’re hanging your head down to stare between your slick-sheened legs and all you could see was a pink blur intruding at your folds. “Or reeeeeeal slow.”
“F-fuck, that feels so good.” Your back arches into the perfect curvature when his velveteen tongue starts slowing down into an agonizing pace.
It was just so slow that you could feel each line and crevice of his rows of tastebuds, and just so thorough that speckles of your syrup were darting from your orifice and splattering! down onto the mattress. It starts forming a puddle on the sheets beneath you- one that Sukuna was certain not to go to waste.
His free hand skids down the insides of your thighs, layering his fingers in a thin glaze of your pussy’s slick. And whence his fingertips were all done and coated, the pink-haired man was raising them up to his mouth and sucking the sweetness off.
Not. A. Single. Drop. Wasted.
With a groan, he’s not letting his time go to waste, either. And he’s back funneling your snug channel with his tongue—in and out, in and out, in and out. “Take yer pick- s’all for you, mama.”
“Sh-shit, but I like both.” You didn’t even know whether he was talking to you or your pussy by this point - but you were too gone on his tongue to even care. Slightly bucking your hips into his mouth, “But I- ngh, do like it a bit better when you go…faster…”
A sudden spank down on your clit once more, “Atta girl.”
Nose pressed up against your slit, tongue lashing ruthlessly inside.
Ruthlessly.
If you thought you were ruined on the movements of his tongue just earlier, then this sudden sloppy cadence has you seeing fucking stars.
The gooey end of his tongue swabs against every tender spot at your innards, somehow forking at your luscious g-spot and attempting to reach even deeper. Perhaps your cervix. Perhaps your womb. And Sukuna’s permanently patterning his tastebuds against your walls. Swirling and swirling and swirling right on time with the caresses at your clit.
He didn’t care how much you bucked and trembled at the sheer pleasure of it, the frat leader’s fingernails dig deep into your flesh every time you lurch away.
“Ah ah-” Only to be hauled back down in mere seconds by one of his strong arms. Back and forth, back and forth, baaaack and forth. With an unceremonious squelch! your pussy’s being plastered back down onto his mouth. And Sukuna tongues your folds back open to start jutting in between your lips, “Don’t- haaaah, fuck, don’t fucking run away…how m’I supposed to eat out my girl’s pussy if yer fucking running away?”
“I don’t know, you’ve never- hck!” Before you can open your mouth with your next few words, Sukuna’s showing you what it means to be his girl.
To have his knobbly fingertips pinch at your clit and start drawing—“H-heh…can ya spell it?” He rovers his thumb even harder on top of it like a button, “Bet’cha didn’t know I could do that. Spell it. Or are ya fucked dumb on m’mouth already?”
You’re replying crossly, “M’not fucked-”
“Then spell it.”
With a pitiful moan, you’re throwing your head in a downward direction to try and see exactly what he was-
Smack!
Yet another mean swatting on top of your puffy pussylips, and Sukuna’s tutting against them. It was as if his lips were glued to your pussy using the slick adhesive of your juices, and he didn’t want to detach himself even to speak—even to speak. “Ah ah- no cheating now, mama. Noooo cheating.”
“Fuh-fuck—” He angles his fingertips as if he was about to strike you once more. “Fine- I meant fine! The first letter is, mmm…”
“Yeeeees?” Drawling out.
And your pupils are swirling in time with the sultry motions of his digits. It was a pattern that makes every hair on your body stand on end - too curly to be a particularly pointy letter like ‘A’ or ‘K’ and yet not even half as curly to have been an ‘S’ that might mean his name. “Is it…R?”
“Atta girl.” Yet he plants another slamming of his fingertips that makes you throw your head back and whine, “Whoops- accident, sweetheart, accident.”
“F-fu—” Fuck you, is what you meant to say.
But Sukuna’s roughly bashin’ away at your sweetest orifice a few more times, leaving a big bruise against the side of your walls with his tongue. And it simply leaves you speechless, “Mmmm, nope! The next letter isn’t ‘F’, try again.”
“Y—!” You’re bawling out, your jaw falling agape at the sheer incredible speed at which he was drawing out all those whines and noises. It was simply unbearable in the best way. Unbearable.
You could tell that he had so-very-clearly been holding back at your previous…hangouts. And you could feel the burning sensation of bliss start up at the pit of your stomach, “And is the rest of the word ‘Ryomen’?”
“Mmm, three correct.” He answers, to which your hazy mind guesses that the first letters were R-Y-O…“Quite the sneaky lil’ thing, aren’t you? And ah- here’s a little hint, this next one’s an apostrophe.”
“Fuuuuuck, m’close.” You’re whimpering out in response- and his response, he’s only slashing at your g-spot at a faster rhythm. Only plucking at your tender clit—“S, and the next letter is- ngh, P.”
“Good, goooood—”
“U.” You gulp, and you’re unsure whether it was because of your oncoming high or because a lecherous part of you already suspected what the rest of what he was writing may be. “S…S…” Your entire body shivers, limbs unravelling - and you’re not quite sure whether you’d make it until the end of-
Your lips wobble as you try to enunciate, “Ryo’s pussy…”
“That’s my girl.”
You’re seeing a split-second of flashing lights before you’re suddenly pushed onto your high - hard, overtaking waves of pleasure that leave you all boneless against Sukuna’s eating mouth. But that worked just alright for him- he’d simply white-knuckle onto the side of your hips and lavish your tight entrance with his entire tongue.
Probing, again and again.
The cushy edge of his tongue swipes forwards to strike your g-spot right on time with the peaks of your euphoria. Like a perfect button for him to press on and increase your pleasure until you were simply shaking, “And my girl feels so goooood on her Ryomen’s mouth, doesn’t she?” He pants, fingers pinching your clit now and rolling between the roughened pads of his index and thumb. “Feels so nice cumming on Ryo’s tongue- bet’cha didn’t know it could feel this good, huh, sweetheart?”
Furiously shaking your head, “Didn’t- didn’t know- hck!”
And with a few more moans you’re just splashin’ your clingy wads all down Sukuna’s throat, all across his handsome lower half. “Ooooo- aaaaaatta girl—”
“C-can’t stop cumming.” You shake, tears sparkling at the edges of your eyes. “It just feels so good-”
“Leave some for m’cock, alright?”
But he was the one that wasn’t leaving anything, that wasn’t showing you any mercy.
Even once the sparks of your startling orgasm have bated, he’s plunging his wide tongue in and out. Scouring the inside and outside of your treacly pussy. Licking up every single ounce of slick sploshed down your front.
Dripping wet.
Only once you’re well and thoroughly overstimulated does Sukuna actually falter his movements, “Mmmm, there ya go, girlie~” He’s pulling his prolonged muscle out of your hole with a sloppy squeeeeeelch! He looks down at your mindlessly clenching pussy and admires his handy-work. “And now for the real deal.”
“Th-that wasn’t the real deal?” You’re asking through a whimper.
“That? That was just my appetizer, y’know?” The pink-haired man snickers at his own joke - though it really didn’t sound like a joke to you.
You attempt to flip yourself over- but Sukuna keeps you firmly in place with a hand at your hips. “Ah ah- don’t you think of running from me. Not now. Not ever.” And while you’re still draped across your front on the bed like this, Sukuna’s starting to tug off your hoodie—
Before he realizes just which one it is - his, his name on the back - and he stops immediately.
“Actually…” Sukuna stands, and you know that tone of voice didn’t bode anything good for you. “Why don’tcha keep it on, hm?”
Instead, he’s the one that’s stripping now.
That skin-tight shirt.
Those baggy pants.
Those boxers that were—oh.
Your eyes widen, “Is it just me or did…grow even bigger since last time, Ryo?”
“Mmm- why don’t we ask my pussy about it later, hm?”
And with that said, you’re getting to turn around and admire all of Ryomen Sukuna’s toned, tanned muscles. They ripple as he discards his clothes somewhere over his shoulder, making those tattoos of his look as though they were moving by themselves.
Greedily, your eyes follow the circles on either of his deltoids. The snake-like patterns down his pecs. The rings around his beefy biceps. The rings around his wrists. All the way down to the rings around either of his meaty thighs.
Shyly, you’re realizing that you’d skipped over one spot in particular.
And you drift your eyes back up—Sukuna’s erection was hard and hot between his legs. The most furious red at his mushroom tip that made him look as though he was so achingly needy he might as well fall off.
That you might as well count each one of his throbs.
Biting down on your lower lip, you’re impatient as you follow a bead of milky pre that dollops on top of his thick tip. Smearing just a bit. Travelling down, down, dooooown the veiny length of his shaft- until it ends up at the unruly tufts of pink at his base.
His tattooed base.
One more ring around his hilt, and next to that—you gasp.
“Oh…oh my god.” Without a second thought, you’re leaning in to get a closer look at that irritated patch of skin next to Sukuna’s v-line. And if your eyes weren’t deceiving you - that part of his skin had a swirling black calligraphy of none other than your fucking name on him. “Don’t tell me you’ve-”
“I did.”
You gape up at him, “Ryomen Sukuna, you’re fucking crazy-”
“I know.” He shivers as you reach out to touch it. Sukuna was fully unclothed now and prowling towards you on the bed, like a predator closing in on his prey. “But I couldn’t just name that pussy of yours ‘Ryo’s pussy’ and not contribute my part, too, could I? I had to show my dedication too, mama.”
“But putting it permanently on your skin-”
“Is the best decision I’ve ever made.”
You knew there was no talking him out of it, and Sukuna’s eagerly smoothing his calloused palm on top of your stomach. Caressing you. Drinking you in with his eyes.
Flipping you onto your stomach once more-
“Now face down, ass up- I wanna fuck my girl right.”
You’re barely managing to let your sweaty scalp hit your pillow before Sukuna suddenly has his obtuse tip squeezed between your pussylips and pushing and pushing—
“Oh—” Your eyes are scrunching as tight as they could close, and the only thing you can do is utterly melt into Sukuna’s carnal desire. You don’t think you’d ever get used to his sheer size. “Oh my god- oh my fucking- ngh, I always love h-how you feel-”
“For now-” And it’s a damn miracle that the man could speak - especially when your tender walls were squeezing him like that. “F-for now just pretend it’s the first time.”
Did he just stutter? What was he even…“Wh-what- oh.” You’re being shut up by Sukuna’s rugged, ravenous tip once more. He’s swabbing every treacly spot of your insides without even trying - simply just attempting to fit and fit and fit—
“Just- hah- just pretend s’the first time.” He kisses his lips to his teeth, both clammy hands plastered onto the side of your hips to help him funnel his massive cock inside.
His flared slit lodges against the roof of your cunt, and you’re arching just so beautifully into him- that he can’t help but lean down and bite at the side of your throat. Humming in satisfaction at the way the marking is just covered by his hoodie, it gives him the courage he needs to say those next few words. “Pretend s’just you and I. Pretend s’our first time- ngh.”
“You mean to say—oh.” You’re dizzy on the way his honed tip was perfectly opening up your hidden spots, and every time he’s reeling his hips back it’s just a constant back and forth. “Don’t think I even knew I had a spot there…”
“Good- good, jus’ like that.” He grunts out, holding you even tighter to his muscular body. “Pretend s’like we’ve never fucked before. You’re my girl- always have been. M’your Ryo- always have been. Always will be.”
“A-always will be-”
“And right now s’our first time, I’ve never fucked you before- oh, forget about all those fucking times in my room and in the car.” He whispers out, something desperate cracking primally at the back of his throat as he eases his way inside. “S’our time now—and I get to finally, finally fuck you as mine.”
All his.
And you’re finding that when Sukuna’s fucking you as just his…it means he’s so much more ravenous than you’ve ever known him to be.
So much more ruined.
So much more out-of-control—
It’s like he’s truly realized his full potential. “Since yer mine I get to- hah! stop you from running from my cock whenever I like.” Hauling you down like a ragdoll with both hands on your waist, you shrill at the slamming contact of his hips against your hips. His thighs against the backs of your thighs. His large cockhead against your ready cunt. “I get to fuck you raw for the first time. I get to fuck you so much- s-so fucking much n’ I don’t even have to worry about the marks I leave.”
“What marks?”
A slam so hard that you swear you can feel the globular end of his shaft right near your throat—“These marks.”
And you’re almost about to repeat your question in search of an answer once more- before you’re realizing what exactly Sukuna means.
Marks.
The marks he was leaving on every gooey orifice inside your cunt, on the globes of your ass being pummeled by his hips, on the sides of your body under the mercy of his grip.
Using that very same grip, he’s folding you on all fours underneath him. Tighter and tighter. Closer and closer to his hulking body. Before your muddled brain can register it, Sukuna’s reaching over his meaty right leg to plant right on top of your sweaty scalp.
Yes—on top.
The heel of his foot ends up on your head, and your eyes snap open in- perhaps shock, perhaps at the sheer audacity of him. You jolt.
“Ah ah-” The only thing you hear before one of his hands clasp ‘round the cottony fabric of your hoodie and tugs it down - it seems that your sudden lurching movement had made his uniform bunch up by your head.
And the famed wrestler wasn’t just bringing it down to take a good look at your pretty self. No—he was also bringing it down to read the name - his name - emblazoned across your back and jostling to and fro while you were being fucked by his ruthless hips. “Theeeeere we go, gotta rep the name, mama. Especially the first time.”
“Rep the set? You’re already fucking me- ngh, senseless.”
“And yet I already get to have you- fuck, wear this f’me. My girl. My lovely, lovely girl.” His toned figure leans down and he’s sloppily kissing at the name.
His name—fuck, how he loved this position. That was why he’d purposefully chosen it, to have his name peak up at him as he ploughed himself into you like a madman. Grunting out once your sopping lips squeeze him at the stretch, “The girl with my- hck! last name-”
“Ryo!”
“Whoops- too soon?” He doesn’t even sound the least bit regretful. And you can’t even answer, because then he’s only fucking your surprised whines out of you, “Mmm, and don’t forget that I also get to do- heh, this.” And as if it was even possible, his vicious hips accelerate their tempo against you. “I get to do whaaaatever I want with my girl’s pretty pussy- ah, apologies, my pretty pussy just to fit my thick cock inside.”
“I-inside-” You mindlessly babble out, “Want it inside-”
“Yeah? Want it all the way until my tattoo? Never been fucked like this before, have ya?”
Well, he has fucked you like this before. But that coherent part of you realizes that that wasn’t exactly the answer that Sukuna wanted right now—“No- no, never. You’re the first to fuck me like this, Ryo, mmm.”
“Good.”
Whether he was praising you for keeping up with his conversation - or whether he was praising you for taking his cock until he’s bottoming out - you’re not quite sure. Either way, the curly pink hairs at his base finally reach your folds—and they scritch-scratch at your pussy in such a carnal way you never knew you needed.
As he’s fully inside of you, the wrestling superstar hunches his entire body over and shivers. And pants. And throbs his entire length deeply inside of you in a way that makes your head pound with a rapid ba-thump! Ba-thump! Ba-thump!
“H-here….” One of his hands lifts off of your hip to caress down the front of your stomach. Sukuna feels for where his swollen tip was pulsating against your womb, and presses doooown against that lil’ bump. “S’my first time kissin’ my girl over here, isn’t it?”
“It- it is—”
And Sukuna truly is fucking you like it’s the first time - he’s fucking you like he’s angrier he didn’t have you earlier, he’s fucking you like he’s making up for all the lost time.
Just roughened, piercing bashes against your g-spot- he doesn’t even have to try to locate that bruised n’ battered little area on your channel. The rounded orifice of it gets pummeled by his shaft, and you’re seeing stars due to the sheer pressure of him. “It feels so- ngh- fuck.” You could barely even string together a sentence, head feeling all airy.
“Feels soooo—?”
“I don’t- I don’t even…” He doesn’t even have to be fully inside to let his curvaceous tip poke into your cervix. Purposefully angling his hips, Sukuna’s rub-a-dubbing the door to your womb with his puckered tip. “Th-think m’cockdrunk, Ryo.”
And if you were in any better state of mind, maybe you’d have noticed the way that his rude cadence seemed to stutter. “C-cockdrunk?”
Nodding through your tears, “I am, I am—oh.”
But of course, never let Ryomen Sukuna be known as the man that doesn’t take care of his cockdrunk partner.
Never.
Because in a split-second, he’s lifting his rude foot off of your head and you jolt at the sudden rush of blood to your scalp. “Oh- oh my…”
Only mere moments of mercy before you feel your entire limp body be hoisted off of the mattress.
Your eyes damn-near bulge out of your scalp, and you’re flailing at the feeling before- “Shhh, shh sh- be a good girl f’me before you make me put that foot atop your head again, mama.” Sukuna grunts, and suddenly you’re feeling one of his strong arms look around your neck.
You could feel all those developed biceps of his bulging against your throat once Sukuna cradles your neck and squeeeeezes. Spittle flowing out of you and down his veiny forearm like a fountain, “D-did you just put me in a fucking- ngh, headlock?!”
“Mhm.” He shows absolutely no remorse, “And I don’t hear her complaining.”
In fact, he could only hear the most sopping wet squelches emanating from your cunt.
And so Sukuna keeps holding you in this treacherous headlock whilst he’s pummeling you from behind. All those veiny inches of his cock being slurped right up between your pussy lips. Again. And again. And again and again and again—
It feels like hours have passed before you’re jolting at the sudden feeling of Sukuna’s warm fingertips slithering down between your sheeny legs once more. Your clit throbs like it’d missed his touch- and never one to leave you wanting more anymore, he’s twisting his rugged fingers on the nub.
Letting the patterned edges of his digits start twistin’ and turning that swollen knob in his hand. Your cunt squelches out a wet splash of slick at the sudden pleasure, “I-it just feels so good-”
“I know.” Sukuna hums, all smug with himself. “She’s told me- heh, think about thaaaat—I get ta speak with her for the first time tonight.” Before you can say anything else, he dips his head down to look at your cunt from underneath you and coos. “Hey, girlie, how are ya~?”
“Y-you’re unbelievable-” And yet he’s rovering his thumb all over your clit in a way that just has you gasping for more, and your cunt squelching out even louder.
“Mmm, m’doing good, thanks for asking.” He continues…a fucking conversation with your pussy. And at your widened stare, he shrugs. “What? M’only having a chat with- hah, my pussy. Wha’s wrong with that?”
“N-nothing…” You suppose.
“Exactly.” And then he times the ministrations of his thick thumb just right to roll over your clit in synchronization with his cock. You’re feeling one incredible thud! at your g-spot, and then you’re feeling another drag on your clit. This time…a pattern that you’re finding strangely familiar- “Can you spell, mama?”
“Are you asking—” Smack! A rude spank on your cunt, “F-fuck…”
“Apologies ‘bout that. S’my first time with you, remember? And I hafta get to know you. Get to do this.” He hums, and it’s not to you anymore. He’s completely and utterly devoted to keeping all his concentration on giving your pussy the utmost pleasure possible - from two different places of origin. “So about that spelling—”
“Fuck, Ryo, what are you trying to…”
This time, he’s not cutting you off. This time you’re trailing off out of your own volition, your ears listening for the sequences of letters that Sukuna calls out.
A sequence that sounds oddly familiar.
A sequence that spelled out your name.
He drag-drag-draaaaags your clit and it lets out a particularly loud lecherous sound that the larger man beams at, “Mmm, exactly. Perfect pronunciation and all- now let’s see if you can spell the rest.” And without further ado, Sukuna’s expert fingertips start outlining a different set of letters on your throbbing clit.
Making you shake with pleasure, “W-wait that spells…” Silently mouthing along.
S—he’s accelerating the thumps all the way at the back of your cervix, until you’re feeling dizzy.U—K—just the sheer amount of tears that streamed down your cheeks already told you that you were getting close to your high. U—
Your eyes widen, “Y-you’re not seriously-”
“Shhhh.”
N—but oh, he was. As if he was reading off of that sports hoodie on your back. And he was letting you tremble uncontrollably in the aftermath of his constant strikes and thumps at your greedy orifice, drilling into you with a hunger that never satiates. A hunger that tells you he’s wanted to do this for a long, long time. A—
You whisper what exactly it spelled out.
Your name, with the last name of-
“-Sukuna.” The man himself finishes off, before leaning down to leer at your drivelling cunt. The very same that was slurping and squelching away maddeningly at your gushing slick—“S’gonna be your name very soon, my girl.”
You don’t quite know which one of you he’s talking to - you or your pussy.
But you don’t quite care at this moment, either. Because in almost no time, you’re bursting into your nth high of the night - it’s no longer simply your second anymore.
Because as soon as you’re crashing into the white-hot wave of your second, you’re plummeting into your third. Your fourth. Your fifth. Seemingly dragged out of you as if it was oh-so-easy by none other than Sukuna’s ruthless cock.
You shake as it explodes through you, harder than any other orgasm you’ve experienced in your entire life.
Toes curling.
Lashes staining with tears.
The only thing you can do is arch your back into Sukuna’s sculptured one and let him thoroughly bash you through your zaps of euphoria. Over and over.
He lets his veiny shaft glide down your gooey insides, caressing every inch of you that seemed to explode with pleasure any time he was pistoning into you. “Yeah-” He grunts, feeling you uncontrollably clench around him. “Yeah, yeah, yeah- cum around my cock, sweetheart. Only around my cock—” His headlock on you tightens, “-got it?”
“Got it-” You babble out stupidly, your cheek slipping along the sheen of saliva you’d created on his forearm. “I got it, I got it- but…”
One pink brow raises, “But…?”
“But I also want you to do o-one thing f’me.”
He nuzzles the crook of your neck, “Anything.”
“Cum inside?”
And, well, Sukuna did say ‘anything’—didn’t he?
Because with a few more vulgar thrusts, the infamous frat leader is tipping his head back and emptying himself out inside you. You could feel the way that his thiiick balls clench from behind you, each of those wadded webs of ivory sap being poured out into you.
Each and every single one.
Stuffed and stuffed inside of you.
Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you take in the second skin that he’s layering on top of your insides. Something so warm and filthy feeling heavy inside of your orifice—fuck, you’re discovering that a primal part of you loved the feeling.
It sploshes! out into your deepest depths and create a lil’ puddle that you can feel even at your cervix. Just swirled around by his thickened tip, “C-cumming—” The man rasps out, voice botched with a primal sort of hoarseness. He stutters as he cums. He shakes as he cums. Crimson eyes shuttering at the most blissful feeling in the world, spurting his seed inside your needy pussy. “And then there’s that- hah! I get to cum inside you for the f-first time…”
And it really was the first time he was filling you up like this. All the way up to the brim and fucking those pearly beads of cum right back inside you, “Kinda- ngh, always wan’ you to cum inside me.”
He pecks the side of your temple, hips still shifting filthily. “Hey then we’re gonna have a- mmm, mini-Sukuna before you’re even Mrs. Sukuna, girlie.”
“M-maybe I don’t mind…” Bucking your hips back into his for more friction.
“Talkin’ outta that pussy, I see.”
With yet another sudden spank! on top of your sultry folds, you’re being flipped over once more and stuffed right back up to your womb with Sukuna’s thickened inches. All of them shoved right up until you can feel them at your very throat- “We might have to dumbify her too, I’m afraid.”
“S’gonna be a long night.” You’re commenting with a shiver.
Sukuna grins, “How’d you spell ‘the first of many’?”
.
.
.
The tournament was in an uproar by the time you’re running into the stands.
Well, more bowing and apologizing as you scramble to your seat past rows of other supporters- but you stand by it nonetheless. You’re letting out a pant of relief as you finally plop unceremoniously down onto the only empty chair in the stands, placing down your bag and pulling on the collar of Sukuna’s wrestling hoodie in an attempt to fan yourself.
“You’re late, my dear.” Utahime hisses from the row behind you, flipping off the middle-aged man that grumbles at her.
“I know, I’m sorry!” You whisper back - ah, so that’s where they were. A few more rows behind her were some of the Curses Epsilon brothers - including Choso - that you had been starting to get to know, little by little. They wave happily at you and you wave back with a grin. You’d been wanting to get seats next to all of them, but it seems they’d filled up faster than you’d hoped.
At the very least you were lucky to have your friends so close by you, and you’re shooting them an apologetic smile - after all, you were the one that’d bugged your two best friends to join you watching Sukuna’s wrestling match. You mouth, “Whole story. Explain later.”
“Traffic?” Shoko asks from next to your purple-haired friend, looking up from her anatomy textbook. For what reason she had that, you weren’t quite sure…and you weren’t brave enough to ask, either.
Choosing the short story, you’re nodding at her suggestion.
You’d run all the way here, truth be told.
Sukuna was already halfway through his final match of the tournament, one more and he’d win this collegiate title. And though a part of you was upset that you’d missed out on so much (sure, you could watch them later on the recordings, but it was the principal that counted!), it made you so-very-proud to see so many of the recruiters with their eyes locked on Sukuna and Sukuna only.
Your boyfriend of just shy of a month.
You couldn’t blame them—fuck, you just wished you hadn’t had to wait so long at the dry cleaner’s! Apparently there had been some sort of mix-up that’d resulted in you being quite delayed while you actually waited to claim the hoodie you knew and loved too much.
Sure, it’d been slightly stained from some of last nights…activties (somewhat of a good luck ritual, he claimed, though you knew what he really wanted to do was fuck you in the hoodie with his name), but beloved nonetheless!
Anyways—after falling behind your schedule, you’d been hit by traffic, and then there was the issue of actually trying to navigate the stadium, and then- well, here you were!
Evidently, it seems that Sukuna is sensing the same thing.
Because in the middle of an ankle lock, Sukuna’s crimson eyes flick upwards towards the stands- and they’re meeting yours instantly.
A charged tension only the two of you could feel.
Squirming slightly in your seat at the intensity of his stare, his realization, you give him a wave.
In mere split-seconds, Sukuna has the other man slammed down onto the floor and his sweaty body struggling to even move. You cheer, that had to have at least been two points.
“We’re lucky you’re here, my dear.” Utahime leans down to whisper to you. “You won’t believe what that boyfriend of yours was like before the game- moping around, calling you, staring longingly at his phone wallpaper of you—eugh! I didn’t even know that a man of that size and strength could act like a lost puppy.” She shudders.
Shoko states plainly, “What she means to say is that your boyfriend missed you.”
And you’re just about to open your mouth to answer- when right beside you, a jittery voice speaks up.
“P-pardon me.” The three of you turn your heads in the direction of the man that’d been seated to your left, you hadn’t paid much attention to him considering the frantic state you’d been in when you first got here. “Did you say ‘boyfriend’?”
And now, you almost wished you did.
Because the man beside you looked exactly like Sukuna only…softer. Quieter. Calmer. With an air about him that told you that perhaps he was the type that grew up with quite a bit of responsibility. He wore a sweater with the shapes of some marine animals sewn into it. He didn’t have any of Sukuna’s tattoos or the chiselled look of a recent athlete or the gruffness he wore like a cloak - but the resemblance was uncanny.
The bespectacled man adjusts his glasses and your jaw drops—this must be his older brother that he told you so much about! “You must be his girlfriend that he’s told me so much about.”
“Y-yes!” You snap out of your little reverie at his words, and you’re immediately reaching out your hand for a handshake. “You must be his older brother, Jin?”
Jin pulls you in for a hug, sighing out against you. “Thank you so much for taking care of him.”
“No- not at all! The pleasure’s all mine, and he’s the one that takes care of me most of the time.” You’re sheepishly admitting, “Thank you for taking care of him all this time, I know he looks up at you so much.”
The other pink-haired man blushes, scratching behind his neck. “W-well I wouldn’t say that…” He glances to his left, “Oh! And silly me- I forgot to introduce you to our father.”
You’re beaming at the gruff old man seated next to Jin, a furrow between his brows that you could’ve recognized anywhere on his younger son. “It’s a pleasure to meet you!”
The introductions between you and Sukuna’s family go swimmingly (if there was a wrestling alternative then you’d have said it), and you’re finding that they were the absolute sweetest. Jin was soft and compassionate, the polar opposite of Sukuna and yet so similar to him at his deepest core. Wasuke was more like Sukuna on the outside, and you swear you could feel your sides splitting at the quips he’d comment about his son while you all watched the match.
Eventually, the three of you along with your friends in the latter rows are chatting up so much of a storm that you almost don’t notice—“He’s about to win.”
At the sound of your voice, the rest of your group looks over at the ringed boundaries of the match.
Instantly, you’re all up on your feet and cheering at the top of your lungs.
All of you.
Jin and Wasuke.
Shoko and Utahime.
The Curses Epsilon boys.
You.
And when Ryomen Sukuna finally defeats his tough opponent, you can’t decide which one of you cheered the loudest.
But what you do know is that he’s sauntering up past the boundary the minute his win is announced - all sweat-streaked and spitting out his mouth guard, all panting and toned with his muscles, all uncaring whether or not his coach is talking to him right now.
He doesn’t care
He doesn’t care.
Sukuna’s breaking into a sprint once he sees you getting off the stands—and scoops you into his arms whilst you yelp in delight.
You knew you must look such a sight, you and this hulking man.
You feel him bury his face into the crook of your neck, whispering. “Could you all have been any louder?” And you could feel the way his face burns against your skin.
“What- the King of the Court fan club?” You’re innocently questioning, “Yes, that is our name and you can thank Jin for that. And no, we don’t show signs of stopping any time soon- we actually plan on expanding to the rest of the campus by the end of semester-”
He peeks up at the group behind you, here just for him - his brother and father, your friends, his fraternity brothers - and groans. And you can only laugh.
“You all are insufferable.” Sukuna says, baritone dramatically pained. “Especially you.”
Summary: She wanted to fall—just for a moment, just to feel free. Azriel promised he’d catch her. He always does.
Warning/Notes: Nothing too bad, this is just a short little piece I’ve wanted to make for sometime. Warning for falling from a great height, and maybe suggestive language to jumping off a cliff, but nothing outright. Please let me know if I should add anything, thanks for any feedback!
✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧✩☽✧
The wind whipped savagely around the mountainside. The rushing waterfall sparkled in the sunlight, the water tumbling over the rocks below wildly. A deep, unforgiving cliff lay just ahead. An abyss of clouds and blue skies covers the truth of the dense forest that lays so far beneath.
Y/n’s hands itched to reach out — from so high up, it felt as though she could capture them, the soft white powder weaving between her fingers like one of Azriel’s shadows. A chill nipped at her cheeks, slicing along her skin like a blade, leaving rouge in its wake.
This edge — it feels like freedom.
She hadn’t realized the thought had shoved its way to his side of the bond. Not until the shadows stirred. Not until his presence tightened from across the mountaintop, sharp and silent.
She took a step forward, whispers of freedom dancing along her ears. Promises of release. Of falling fast enough to forget. Of him catching her the way he always had.
But, the bond thrummed, boiling in her veins. His worry, buried deep beneath centuries of control, slowly began leaking from his side to hers.
A shadow curled around her wrist. Not forceful. Not dragging. Just there.
His quiet presence interrupted her thoughts, the looming figure behind capturing her attention immediately. His rough hand gripped her arm gently, replacing his shadows. More of them split apart and traveled the length of his arm to reach her, slipping easily from his hands to her leather-clad arm.
"If you fall," his teeth grazed the point of her ear, tongue flicking along the skin, "I will follow." His chest pressed to her back as he moved his other hand to caress her hip, grip keeping her in place.
Her hands were shaking, but it had little to do with where she stood. In fact, with her boots kissing the snow on this mountaintop, it might be the safest place she'd be all night. Now, she was distracted, his hands touching her softly, reverently. His rough, deep voice a lullaby made just for her.
“You don’t understand,” she whispered, leaning into him, her eyes closing as the wind did its best to tear them apart.
His fingers trailed down the length of her arms, finding their home in her hands, clasping both of them against her stomach, his chin finding purchase on her shoulder.
“Explain it to me, little star,”
She sighed, enjoying the view even more now that his arms wrapped around her. Euphoria flooded through her at the use of her nickname, one he’d called her from the very beginning.
She ignored where the other’s stood just a few paces away. They had come here for training that ended half an hour ago. Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian the only three left other than them. They spoke softly, the wind making it nearly impossible to decipher their words. Y/n couldn’t find it in herself to care, though. She wanted to enjoy the peace this place brought her for as long as she could.
“Sometimes I want to fall,” she spoke low so only he could hear, “but only for a moment—just long enough to feel the loss of control, to let go and be carried by the wind. I want to be weightless… and let gravity carry the burden of our enemies and war. Just for a breath. Just long enough to remember why I– we fight.”
He stayed quiet for a long moment, pondering her words carefully, making sure she’s done.
“Then, you should fall.” He finally said, standing to his full height behind her.
Her eyes flew open as she pivoted around sharply, her heel sliding along the snow seamlessly. Her mind stuttered when she saw him. He always stole the breath from her lungs, held it captive until her body could catch up with her soul.
His dark curls were tousled and crazed from the training, the wind doing little to help. His cheeks were chafed red and she could see cold breaths as they escaped from between his lips, looking like white versions of his little shadows. His golden honeyed eyes were bright and alert as they tracked her movements, a soft gleam in them that belonged to her fully.
He held her close to him, the tips of their boots touching as his nose ran along hers, inhaling her scent as he went.
“I’ll always catch you.” A lethal, pure promise. Pride and determination mixing with his fae heritage. Heat took over both of them as their bond glowed and vibrated between them.
She had been so distracted by her mate that she hadn’t realized the other’s departure, leaving them to their own private moment. Probably for the best, she and Az weren’t exactly known for being prudes, and they held little regard to who witnessed them.
“You trust me?” She asked, placing her toes on his, hooking her arms around his neck, lifting so they were eye to eye.
His lips quirked at the mischief that now skipped across her face, his shadows chasing the look as if it could lead them to where they belonged.
Instead of answering her, he held her closer, capturing her lips as his hand cupped her cheek delicately. His tongue ran along the seam of her lips, devouring the little noises that escaped her. He kissed her passionately, her fingers finding their way to his hair, gripping the strands at the top and nape. She held him to her like a lifeline, his lips the only thing she could taste, feel.
Frost and cedar clung to him, tangled with heat, as his teeth caught her bottom lip. She gasped, his tongue taking advantage and tangling with hers, kissing her like he may die if he didn’t. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head as his lips trailed from lips to her cheek, her jaw, and down her throat– a trail of saliva left in their wake, the only other evidence of this happening. She hoped his left bruises, that he marked her as his, she wanted everyone to know who she belonged to.
Much too soon, he pulled away, both of them breathing harshly, foreheads brushing as they caught their breaths.
“Take me flying?” She asked softly, her chest pressed deliciously against his, her legs already wrapping around his middle.
“Of course, little star.” His arm slipped more firmly around her waist, fingers spreading across her hips and back as he pulled her flush to his chest, once more.
“Hold on,” he murmured, breath brushing the shell of her ear.
And then he dropped off the ledge—just like that. Wings slicing through the sky, his shadows trailing like smoke.
Her voice echoed in the open, a mix between a laugh and a scream escaping her, and he felt it against him. He felt it deep in his bones. A small smile flashing along his face.
He flew a little faster.
His dive quickly settled and he began to rise higher and higher. They passed where they had just been standing, going as high as he could take her. His beautiful expanse of wings spread wide into the sky above. Soft pink hews glowing in the soft golden rays.
The view stole her breath, the magic of flying making her ache for her own wings. She loved being in his arms, traveling the sky and stars with him, but sometimes she wished she could fly alongside him. She wanted to experience flying in the same way he and his brother’s did. She imagined that it tasted like freedom in its own way.
When he finally came to a stop, his wings flapping in the wind as they held them deep within the sky, he gave her a look—one that made her breath catch far more than the thought of open air beneath her feet. The kind of look she couldn’t hold for too long without unraveling, without completely surrendering herself to him.
The world narrowed to the warm strength of his hands on her, his body steady and secure, the hush of shadows curling around them like a shield.
“Az?” she asked, voice small against the wind, her lips pressing to his where her head lay buried near his neck.
“Mhm?”
“Did you mean it when you said you’d catch me?”
Without hesitation, “Always.”
“Drop me, then.” She pleaded…
She watched as his eyes widened comically, his wings faltering just long enough for them to tumble for a moment. His grip tightening around them, steady before she could even make a noise.
She smiled widely as they righted themselves, meeting his frantic gaze with light. A giggle escaping in place of a scream, his eyes locking onto her face.
“Did you hit that magnificent head of yours during training?” He asked, his hand tightening around her as if he could glue her to him. She did her best to hide her smile in his neck, but he would have none of it, one of his hands cupping the back of her neck, keeping her eyes in line with his.
“Come on, Az. You said so yourself, you’d never let me hit the ground.”
He visibly cringed at the image, rage and sorrow briefly fighting for room on his face before his usual stoicism took control. “If you ever fell accidentally. I’m not exactly looking to tempt fate by dropping you on purpose, Y/n.”
“What if you never had to stop holding me?”
He laughed, then. A quick shake of his curls before his wings fluttered angelically, a map of veins and power shimmering in the glow. Gods, she loved when Az let her touch them, she could get lost in all the ways she brought him to the brink with just soft touches and gentle caresses. She watched, mesmerized as they snapped in.
“You’re not going to let up are you?” He asked, adoration in his tone, he stared at her like she alone lit the night sky in moonlight.
“I trust you, mate.” She tugged on his nape, lips catching his as a growl came from him. His lips still attached to hers as he pressed into her, letting his wings relax completely. She could have sworn she heard his shadows murmur…
hold on tight
don’t let go
safe, safe, safe
And then the wind chased after her and Azriel as they fell. Her stomach dipped violently at the sudden shift in gravity. The drop stealing her breath and skyrocketing her pulse, adrenaline rushing through her blood.
Falling.
And, falling.
Free.
The world disappeared.
There was no ground. No sky. Just the wind — roaring past her ears, cold and relentless — her heart beating as if learning how to for the first time. His arms were steady around her, providing a warmth to her chilled bones. Electricity traveled through her body everywhere his skin touched hers.
And gods, it released her.
Her stomach dipped once more, but not in panic — it was like shedding something heavy. Like every worry, every burden she hadn’t realized she carried, had been peeled away and left behind in their dust.
She was weightless, and the sky was endless, and for the first time ever…
She wasn’t holding on to anything but that warmth.
She was held captive by nothing.
And it was beautiful.
The wind tore his name from her lips in a laugh that felt like lightning. For a moment, they were nothing but heart and air and the thrill of absolute surrender.
And then the treeline came into sight, still far enough away that her fae sight could pick it up as though the trees were pieces to a child’s toy.
Azriel’s wings flared, catching the wind like sails made of shadow and starlight, slowing their descent with practiced grace. The roar of the sky faded to a hush, the wild rush of air surrendering to silence. The snow-laced forest floor rose gently to meet them — not a crash, not a stumble, but a kiss-soft landing that only someone like Azriel could manage with a full-grown Fae in his arms.
His boots crunched into the frost-covered field, the impact so steady it felt like the mountain itself exhaled in relief.
She didn’t even realize she was shaking until they stopped moving.
Her face was tucked into his neck, breathing him in — frost and cedar and something ancient that always smelled like coming home. His grip eased slightly, arms loosening just enough to let her slide down his body, her feet brushing against the ground with a whisper. But he didn’t let her go. Not really.
One of his hands rose to the small of her back, the other curling protectively at her nape, thumb stroking along the line of her neck like he needed to reassure himself she was still here. Still breathing. Still his.
Their foreheads met as if drawn by that shared thread, breath mingling in the cold air, their chests rising and falling in uneven sync. The wind had quieted, but its ghost still tugged at her limbs, at her bones. Azriel reached up and smoothed a few wild strands of her hair away, his gloved knuckles brushing her temple with the kind of reverence one might reserve for holy things.
He kissed her then — not like before, not heat and hunger — but soft, grounding. A press of lips that said, You're safe. I'm here. I’ve you.
Then another, to her wind-chapped cheek.
Another, to the top of her hand.
And one more to the bend of each finger, like he was thanking every part of her for letting go.
She clutched the front of his leathers, not because she was afraid, but because she didn’t want to float away. She stood steady once more, but the feeling of flying — of falling — hadn’t left her bones yet.
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispered, more to himself than to her, forehead still resting against hers.
Her smile was breathless, her lips brushing his. “Hold on tighter next time.”
His answering kiss was a promise, slow and deep, as the shadows curled around them in a quiet cocoon, sheltering them from the rest of the world.
his thumb circles your clit tantalizingly. teasingly.
drawing out those sweet sounds from your bruised lips, azriel claims it’s his “favorite kind of music” to listen to your moans and your sighs. the intimacy of it all is nearly overbearing.
two of his fingers plug in and out of you rhythmically, swirling and obliterating your insides. you think you may just die. your skin feels sticky and hot and your insides are melting with the warmth.
“az…”
he smirks, dropping his head onto your shoulder to press short kisses to it. “sweetheart.”
Summary: When Azriel finds himself drawn to her warmth, her curves, her unapologetic softness, he knew he didn't stand a chance; and once he finally gave in, he'd never crawl back out of her arms, or her bed, again.
Azriel had spent five centuries mastering silence.
He could slip through shadows, read a room with one flick of his cold golden eyes, and kill a man before his target ever heard a footstep.
And yet none of it prepared him for you.
None of it protected him from the way your laughter—bright, unfiltered—sank under his skin like sunlight in a place he’d long since left dark. Or the way you walked into a room with curves that refused to be quiet, hips that swayed like they knew his eyes were on them, thighs that whispered promises in the cradle of his dreams.
You were soft where others were sharp. Loud where others tiptoed around his silence. And you were kind to him. Kind. You looked at him like he wasn’t a weapon. Like he was a man.
And gods, he was fucked.
It started with glances.
One night at the River House, your thigh had brushed against his under the table. Just a second. Just a spark. But Azriel had spent the rest of dinner sitting stone-still, sweat between his shoulder blades, trying not to glance down at where the curve of your legs pressed so innocently against his. Like you didn’t know what you were doing.
He knew. Or hoped.
He went home that night and fucked his hand with your name on his tongue.
Over the following weeks, it only got worse.
His shadows told on him. Whispers of you undressing, fingers brushing lotion over your skin. Your voice, singing softly in your room when you thought no one was listening. The bond—Cauldron, the bond—was growing louder, insistent now, humming in his bones every time you walked by.
He began to crave you like blood. And it made him sloppy.
Sparring with Cassian? He caught a glimpse of you stretching on the sidelines and missed a block, got knocked on his ass. Mission debriefing with Rhys? Azriel didn’t hear a word—because you’d walked in wearing a dress that hugged the dip of your waist and the swell of your hips like a sin.
But he couldn’t touch. Not yet.
He didn’t know if you felt it. The bond. The way it pulled on him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him closer to you with every breath. You deserved more than a man who didn’t know how to be soft. A man who burned and bled and broke.
But then… you smiled at him.
That day in the training ring, your face flushed, thighs trembling from the workout, sweat glistening between your breasts—he snapped.
"You alright?" you asked gently, blinking up at him as he stalked toward you, dark and silent.
"No," he said hoarsely. “No, I’m not.”
You looked up at him with that wide-eyed kindness, a little confused, a little wary. “Az…?”
“I need to show you something.”
He didn’t give you time to overthink. Just took your hand and led you through the House—past the halls where his shadows curled and listened, past the tension thrumming in his chest—to the bathing chamber. Quiet. Private.
Sacred.
When the door shut behind you, you stood very still. “Is something wrong?”
Azriel turned to you, heart in his throat. “I think you’re my mate.”
Silence. Thick. Shocking.
You blinked, once. Twice. “You think—?”
“I know,” he said, stepping forward. “I’ve known for months. Since the moment I saw you. The bond—it’s been screaming at me, and I’ve been pretending I can ignore it. But I can’t anymore. Not when you look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m yours.”
The bath steamed behind him, sweet with oils and magic. And you—beautiful and wide-eyed and so damn soft—stood before him like a vision.
He raised a scarred hand. Let it hover near your cheek. “Say something. Please.”
You stared at him, lips parted, and then whispered: “Why me?”
Azriel exhaled, voice thick. “Because your laugh sounds like something I want to protect. Because when you walk into a room, I don’t see shadows—I see a future. Because your thighs drive me insane, and when you smile at me, it hurts. And because I would burn the world if you asked.”
Your eyes shimmered.
“Let me show you,” he said. “Please.”
And you nodded.
He undressed you slowly.
Azriel had never gone to war with trembling fingers, but he did now—unlacing the front of your tunic, pushing the fabric down your arms, eyes drinking in every glorious inch you revealed.
Your breasts spilled free first, soft and full and gods, he wanted to mouth at them for hours. Then your waist, the slight dip of your belly, the luscious curve of your hips.
You reached to cover yourself, instinctive.
“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t you dare hide from me.”
And when you dropped your arms, vulnerable and trembling, Azriel fell to his knees like he’d been commanded by the gods themselves.
You gasped as he kissed the inside of your thigh, his voice shaking with reverence. “I’ve dreamed of this. Every damn night.”
Then his mouth was on you.
Azriel worshipped you like a prayer—his tongue seeking, finding, devouring the sweet bundle of nerves that made you moan and buck against his face. He gripped your thighs with reverent hands, spreading you open wider for him, shadows caressing you like a second touch.
When your thighs clamped around his head, he groaned—groaned—like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.
“That’s it,” he whispered against your slick. “Use me, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart.”
You came for him like a breaking wave. Then again. And again. Until your legs shook and your voice was hoarse from moaning his name.
When he finally rose, your eyes were glazed, your lips kiss-bruised from his.
“Bath,” he murmured, lifting you easily into the water.
You curled into him, back to his chest, the warm water cradling you both. His hands never stopped moving—palming your belly under the surface, stroking the curve of your hip, dragging lazy circles along your inner thigh.
“You drive me mad,” he said, lips against your ear.
“I didn’t mean to.”
He smiled. “I think I was waiting for someone like you. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when I said I’m broken. Who would still want me when I got like this—desperate and wild.”
Then he kissed you.
Not fierce. Not possessive. Just full. Devout. Like a man finally drinking water after years of thirst.
Later, as he dried you off with his own hands—slow, careful, utterly in love—he murmured: “You're mine now.”
You smiled up at him. “And you're mine?”
Azriel lowered his head. Rested his brow against your belly.
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a/n: one last final, very long part for bound by fear reader and az. I love them a lot, and I'm glad you all have too. enjoy
pairing: Azriel x Reader
content warnings: anxiety/insecurity/self-doubt caused by past trauma, smut 18+ (fingering, oral, penetration), non-sexual (and sexual) nudity (i.e. bathing together and changing clothes), drinking, language
word count: 15.3k
synopsis: You loved your mate. You loved him with your whole heart, and it was time you told him.
part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3
my masterlist
~ ~ ~
Azriel had been away for three days.
It had been three days since you awoke beside him, your cheek pressed against his chest and your limbs tangled with his. You had awoken feeling warm and fuzzy and electrified, and then the memories of the night before started dancing in your head. You found yourself staring at Azriel while he slept. You couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing the curve of his lips, couldn’t stop thinking about how they felt pressed against your skin.
Then you thought about how he would likely be consumed by similar thoughts when he woke—and that made you want to curl up inside yourself a bit. You couldn’t explain why you felt the sudden shyness. It just made you a little self-conscious, knowing he knew what you looked like, sounded like, when you were overridden with raw pleasure and desire.
Your heart had leapt into your throat when he stirred awake, his eyes blinking open slowly as he shifted beneath you. His wings slowly stretched open, fluttering slightly before curling back in. His arm still wrapped around your waist squeezed slightly, and when his sleepy eyes met yours, your face immediately flushed. The smile that bloomed across his face made your heart race, and you thought it might beat right out of your chest as you waited for him to speak, to mention the night before.
Then his smile fell, and his eyes snapped shut as he held you to him tighter, and you could feel him vibrate with barely restrained irritation. For the briefest moment, you feared you had done something wrong, but then his eyes met yours again, and they were soft with love and regret that instantly calmed you.
Rhys’s timing to call Azriel away for the first time since you had arrived in Velaris was truly impeccable. Azriel was prepared to outright refuse, but you assured him it was fine—begged him not to ignore his duties for you—and only then did he begrudgingly untangle himself from you. You watched him shuffle around your room as if it was his own. Watched him wash his face in your bathing room before adorning the leathers that had appeared at the foot of your bed, his siphons glinting in the morning sunlight.
His shadows had circled him lazily, as if not quite ready to rise, and when a stray one slithered over and brushed up your arm, your skin turned molten all over again. Azriel’s own cheeks appeared dusted with the slightest hint of pink as he watched you. Your throat bobbed as you met his eyes shyly, pulling your arm away from the shadow and tucking yourself further under the covers.
His smile was soft as he reached for you, his fingers gentle as they brushed the hair from your face, and you could only imagine how disheveled you looked. Azriel did not seem to care though, not as he leaned forward to press his lips against your forehead, and when he pulled away slightly, he only leaned forward again to press another kiss against your skin, and then another, and only then did he finally pull away. He murmured a goodbye and a promise to return soon, and then left you in your bed as he shut the door behind him with a gentle click.
In the moment, you had been relieved to avoid any awkward conversations with your mate. Relieved that you would not, in fact, have to hide from him as you mulled over your actions. Relief quickly faded to an aching longing, though, as the hours passed and you felt the absence of your mate like a phantom limb. As the first night alone finally came to pass, and you longed for his touch, for his scent—instead, forced to inhale the lingering scent of him clinging to your sheets.
As memories from the night before infiltrated your thoughts, you grew more flustered than you ever knew possible. At first you tossed and turned in your bed, until finally you gave in and allowed yourself to indulge in the sinful thoughts as you sought relief from the mounting desire boiling beneath your skin. No one would ever know—and was it really so bad to fantasize about your mate?
Every night you succumbed to the thoughts, your imagination running wild with other possibilities, other future endeavors you might share with your mate, and you needed him to return from the damned mission Rhys had sent him away on. You needed him.
You were trying to prolong the evening as you sat in one of the many sitting rooms of the House of Wind, watching the fire before you crackle and spark to distract you from the absence of your mate. To distract you from the approaching fourth night you would spend alone. An uncomfortable weight had sat on your chest all day, and inexplicable anxiety that left you teetering on an edge as you went through the motions of your day.
You had been on edge since Azriel left, really. Since you woke up beside him that morning, and you felt like the world had shifted a bit. It was like your mind couldn’t decide if what you did that night was good or bad. Logically, consciously, you thought it was good. You certainly didn’t regret it. Clearly, if these nights alone had shown you anything, it only left you wanting more for him. But there was a tiny nagging part in your brain whispering that maybe you should regret it. Maybe you should be more careful. Remember the way Illyrian males treated females. Maybe you were lucky that this time he didn’t push you too far.
Maybe he would expect more than you were ready to give when he returned. Maybe he would demand it. He could after all, couldn’t he? He was your mate. You had kept him waiting so long, surely it was only a matter of time before he grew tired of you dragging this out.
Then you felt that glorious warmth bloom in your chest, that gentle tug that made you breathless, and you turned toward the entryway to see your mate standing there waiting in the shadows. His smile was soft as he stepped closer, and it only grew wider as you rose from your chair to meet him hurriedly, your spiraling thoughts churning to a halt. His hands reached for your waist, pulling you to him so that he could press his lips to yours. You body immediately went pliant in his hold, and you leaned into his touch, relishing in the comfort his presence alone gave you.
You were the one to break the kiss, but only to wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his leather-clad chest as you let yourself settle into your mate. Azriel took no time to return your embrace, his head resting against the top of your own. You breathed in him slowly, letting your heart rate settle and your mind go quiet.
“I missed you,” you murmured.
Azriel’s hand ran up and down your spine. “I missed you, my love,” he murmured in return, the sweet name making your mind turn fuzzy. “It’s late,” he mumbled. “Why are you still up?”
“I—” You fumbled for your words, for an explanation that wouldn’t make you seem so pathetic, but instead all you said, once again, was, “I missed you.”
Azriel squeezed you once, then pressed a kiss to your temple before pulling away. His hand found yours easily, his fingers lacing with yours as he tugged you gently toward the hallway. “Come on,” he murmured.
You followed him silently, your heart rate climbing as he neared your door, and then held it open for you before shutting it behind him. Faelights cast your room in a gentle glow, and you found yourself frozen in the center of your room as you thought about the last time you and Azriel shared your bed. That earlier, inexplicable anxiety started to creep back up your spine, to slither inside your stomach as you stared at your bed, and you didn’t understand. You had done nothing but think of him and his touch since he left, and now that he was here…you were so nervous.
Azriel’s hand circled your waist from behind, pulling your back into his chest as his lips ghosted over the skin between your shoulder and your neck. You sucked in a breath, and his kisses slowly trailed up your neck. His teeth eventually grazed your ear, and your heart was beating so fast you felt dizzy. This wasn’t like the usual rush of nerves that flooded you every time he kissed, where you felt floaty and eager for more. These nerves made you feel a little sick, and you wanted to shove them far, far away.
His breath was hot against your ear, and his next words left you spinning. “We might need to work on closing your side of the bond.”
Your body went taught as you processed his words, confusion and hurt mixing with your anxiety. You placed your hand over his, stilling his touches as you leaned back to look at him. “What do you mean?”
His nose brushed against your neck. “I mean,” he rasped, “Your thoughts while I was away were quite distracting.”
Your breath caught in your throat as icy mortification doused over you. You pulled away from him, spinning around to stare at him. “You—you—” You shook your head. “You mean you heard…?” you asked, your voice wobbling as your eyes began to burn.
Azriel blinked, his lips parting slightly as he stared at you. “Yes,” he said slowly, and then his eyes softened with pity. “Sweetheart—”
You stepped away, halting his words. “You were not meant to.”
“I realize that now,” he said softly, taking one tentative step forward. “But you do not need to be embarrassed.”
Your thoughts jumbled together as you stared at him, anxiety and shame and confusion making them a sticky mess. This was not how you were meant to welcome him home. It should have been you soothing him after days away, you giving him whatever he desired. Instead he had been met by his unstable mate that had plagued him with taunting and tantalizing thoughts for days only for her to refuse to deliver on them.
You wiped away the errant tear that started to roll down your cheek, Azriel seeming pained by its appearance. “Those thoughts were meant to be private,” you whispered, avoiding his eyes. “They were not an invitation.”
His gentle hand on your cheek made you tense, but he coaxed your head to meet his gaze, and guilt decided to enter the mix of emotions swirling inside you as you saw the faint hurt flicker in his eyes. “I know that,” he assured. His thumb brushed against your cheek, and you couldn’t help but lean a little into his touch. “Why don’t we just go to bed?” he hummed.
Panic made your spine stiffen again, and your hand flew up to clutch his wrist. “Azriel,” you started quickly as you pulled his hand away from your face. “I don’t think—I can’t—” You shook your head. “I want you to leave.”
Azriel winced, but he didn’t move. “Y/N,” he said, voice firm enough that your gaze snapped to his. “Take a breath for me,” he soothed. “I will leave, if you really want me to. But I would prefer it if you talked to me.”
You sniffed, dropping his wrist to wipe at your face. You were trembling, and you couldn’t understand why you were freaking out. You were safe. You were safe with Azriel. You were with your mate, and you were safe. He wasn’t like the other Illyrian males you had grown up with—you didn’t need to remember their cruelty when you were with Azriel. You knew that. You knew that, and yet—
You closed your eyes and sucked in one shuddering breath after another, repeating the words in your head. Except, your usual mantras weren’t working. You were not scared of Azriel. You didn’t fear him. You were scared of fucking up. You were scared of disappointing him—of making him wait too long. You just wanted to be a good mate, and here you were panicking over him touching you.
You had never felt so exposed. You had never stood in front of someone and shook with vulnerability, and trusted them not to peel the raw and bleeding pieces of you from your bones.
You thought the days apart would be good for you. You thought they would give you time to calm down and to adjust to the new step you took with him. Instead, standing here with him now, every anxiety and insecurity and fear you had suppressed the last three days were clutching you like a vice and you couldn’t sort through your thoughts fast enough to understand them.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, making your eyes flutter open, peeling your damp lashes apart. “You’re breaking my heart.”
This damned bond. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“Don’t apologize,” he urged. His hand reached for you before falling again, and you hated it. “I just want to understand.”
“I don’t know,” you answered, voice watery. “I don’t know. I missed you so much. I’m so glad you’re home,” your words broke with a small sob.
~ ~ ~
Azriel would be lying if he said this was how he expected his first night back at home to unfold. He had been flooded with your thoughts, your longing and desire, for the last three days, and not once had he sensed so much anxiety. Maybe that morning, when he awoke beside you, he thought you seemed a little untethered—but he assumed it was nerves over him leaving you for the first time. A conceited assumption he was kicking himself for now.
He should have known. He should have known you might spiral after the night you spent together, that you might need some reassurance, and instead he just left. He should have known you had no idea just how much you were sending him down the bond.
Now you were confused and anxious and crying in front of him, worried he wanted more than you were ready to give, and he hated himself for it. He hadn’t seen you so distraught in months, and he hated that he had triggered this.
“Y/N,” he begged, “Breathe. Just focus on breathing. Nothing else matters right now, okay? Focus on the air in your lungs, and nothing else.”
Your eyes were wide and red as you stared at him, and he so badly wanted to touch you. He just wanted to hold you, but he was scared of upsetting you even more. Your eyes flicked down to his shadows swirling restlessly at his feet, and he took a leap of faith and let them loose, watching them gently slither over to you and climb up your legs, eventually twirling through your fingers.
He could feel some of the weight lift off his chest when he saw your shoulders drop slightly, your focus glued to the inky tendrils cooing over you. The relief he felt that you could find at least some comfort from his shadows was overwhelming.
He stood there in silence, watching your breaths turn slow and more even as you stared at the shadows, sinking into their cool touch. Eventually, you dragged your eyes back up to his, and he felt his chest warm just a little. A small spark from his mate that he knew was meant to soothe him, and Mother, he loved you for it. “I don’t know what happened,” you rasped.
Azriel swallowed, nodding slightly. “It’s okay,” he assured. “Sometimes,” he started, trying to choose his words carefully. “Sometimes, our minds just hold onto more than we realize, and it has to let it out.”
You nodded, your lips flattening as you looked down at your hand wrapped in shadow again. Azriel reached for you, but he hesitated again, wanting nothing more than to respect you while also wanting to comfort you. Then your fingers wrapped around his, and he immediately squeezed your hand as you pulled his hand into yours. “I’m sorry,” you apologized again, and Azriel hated how dejected you sounded. He hated the self-loathing he could feel emanating down the bond.
He took a small step forward, pulling your hand to his chest. “I need you to understand something,” he said, voice steady and soft despite the pain roaring inside him. Pain and anger for his mate that made him want to fly to Illyria and burn that damned camp to the ground. Undiluted ire that he would stuff away right now for the sake of his mate. He slowly lifted your hand to his lips, pressing soft and tentative kisses to your palm and then the back of your hand, and he was so glad to see your eyes soften at the gesture.
He squeezed your hand once more before gluing his gaze to yours. “My love for you is unconditional,” he whispered. Your eyes immediately took on a fresh sheen, but he could feel your joy flowing down the bond in place of your previous fear and insecurity. “I love you,” he murmured, his other hand lifting to cup your face. This was not how Azriel imagined speaking the words to you for the first time, but you needed to hear this.
“I love you, plain and simple. There are no strings, no expectations. It is not contingent on what you can give me. Love is free. My love for you is uninhibited, and I never want you to worry about losing it. You never need to worry about upsetting me or that I will grow tired of waiting. I’m here, and I love you, always.”
You sniffed again, your cheeks wet with a fresh wave of tears. “Azriel,” you whispered, but he didn’t want you to worry about finding the right words and sentences to answer him..
“You don’t need to say anything right now,” he murmured. He relished in the way you melted into his touch again, grateful your panic had seemingly abated.
Your arms shakily wrapped around his waist, and your cheek pressed to his chest. His arms immediately circled you, once of his hands cupping the back of your head. “I don’t want you to leave,” you whispered. His heart clenched.
He clutched the golden thread tying your soul to his, tugging gently on that sacred tether. You burrowed further into him, sending your own tug right back. “Never,” he murmured. Then Azriel closed his eyes as he rested his head against yours, the breath he had been holding releasing slowly from his chest as he sank into the arms of his mate.
~ ~ ~
You were in love with Azriel.
You were in love with your mate, who had not properly touched you in three weeks. You were in love with your mate, who had not once broached the topic of accepting the bond. You were in love, and this was not a new revelation for you, but you still had not told him.
Every time you tried, the words got lodged in your throat, and you couldn’t quite spit them out. It was maddening. You were tired of your mind twisting facts into fiction and warping innocent things into new anxieties.
There was likely a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Azriel had not discussed accepting the bond. He clearly was not rejecting you. Perhaps he was just waiting for you to bring it up.
But what if he was the one who wasn’t ready?
Logically, you knew it was unfair of you to be putting this on him. You had not even said I love you yet and only weeks ago you had fallen into the depths of another panic spiral, and here you were wishing to accept your mating bond. You just couldn’t deny the mounting desperation all-consuming love you felt for him, and you so badly wanted to solidify the tether between your souls.
“Sexual tension is practically radiating from you,” Nesta scoffed as she shut her book. Your face flushed instantly, and you opened your mouth to protest but she beat you to it. “Please, for all of our sakes, do something with your gorgeous mate to work it out.” She rose from her chair beside yours, rounding it to move toward the doors to her private library.
“Where are you going?” you asked.
She smirked, holding up the book she had been reading. “To go work out some of my tension with my mate.”
You cringed, shaking your head as she laughed and left you alone in front of the fire. You played with the corner of the page you were on, staring at the words on the page blankly as your mind wandered back to Azriel and your bond. You were tense—and you supposed some of it was due to unreleased desire—but it was also just as much from your worry about the next steps with your mate.
Maybe you should be worrying more about developing intimacy with your mate before forcing him to bind himself to you for an eternity.
Gentle and warm fingers brushed over your neck and across your collarbone, and your eyes immediately fluttered shut as you leaned into the familiar touch. The wonderful scent of cedar and salt wrapped around you, and a rogue tendril of shadow wrapped around your ankle, as if you needed any other clue as to who stood behind you.
His breath was warm against your ear as he leaned down to murmur, “Hello, my love.”
Goosebumps skittered across your skin, and the book in your hands fell limp in your lap as you reached up to curl your fingers around his wrist. “Hi,” you breathed out.
Azriel pulled away to circle around you, crouching in front of you to meet your eyes with a soft smile. His gaze flicked to the book splayed open in your lap, and he plucked the paperback from your grasp before you could protest. You skin was hot as his eyes glinted with mischief while reading the scandalous scene you had unfortunately zoned out in, his lips pulling into an amused smirk. “Fascinating choice of literature,” he teased.
You groaned as you lifted your hands to your face, covering your flushed cheeks from his gaze. “You're not allowed to read my books anymore.”
He laughed, pulling your hands away to meet your bashful gaze. He slid your bookmark between the pages before snapping it shut, resting it on the table next to you. He folded his hand into yours, playing with your fingers for a moment before tugging you up to your feet. “I’m tired,” he admitted, when you raised your brows. “And I want nothing more than to cuddle my mate right now.”
You grinned, squeezing his hand before leaning into his side. “Who knew the Spymaster of the Night Court would be one to demand cuddles?”
Azriel’s cheeks were tinted pink as he guided the two of you down the winding hall. “Only from you,” he murmured.
You smiled softly, your earlier worries a dull thrum beneath your skin as you glowed from his affection. He guided the two of you to his room, opening the door for you before shutting it softly behind him. You walked over to his bed, sitting on the edge as he slipped his boots from his feet. He delicately undid the buckles and laces holding his leathers to his body, the protective clothing falling away piece by piece.
Your earlier qualms came roaring back to the surface as you sat and watched him silently, and he was undoing the many siphons from his body when you blurted, “Why have you not asked me to accept the bond?”
Azriel went still, his eyes wide as they met yours. His lips parted slightly as he stared at you, awkward silence pulsing through the air before he finally asked, “You want to accept the bond?”
It was your turn to flounder. “I—I mean, maybe not right now—but you’ve never mentioned it, and I was starting to worry—”
Azriel stepped closer, his face softening. “Do you know how the bond is typically accepted?”
You licked your lips, feeling far too young and naive for this male fated to be your mate. “Not really,” you admitted.
“The female offers the male food,” he explained, not an ounce of deprecation in his tone. “It’s generally a power given to the female.”
You swallowed, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. “Oh.”
Azriel’s lips quirked. “Oh,” he repeated softly. His face then grew more serious, and you found yourself holding your breath as you waited for his next words. “There’s also the mating frenzy.”
“What is that?” you asked.
Azriel brushed some hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing your skin briefly before playing with your errant strands. “After the bond is accepted,” he started slowly, “Mates’ need for one another can be…consuming.” You were certain your eyes were wide as you listened to him intently, but Azriel continued. “You still have a choice. There is still some semblance of control, but any reservations you might normally hold will likely be overridden by desire. I don’t want that to be how you have me for the first time.”
It was incredibly too hot in this room. Your throat bobbed as you nodded, once again saying, “Oh.”
Azriel smirked slightly, stepping away once again to pull his shirt from his chest, his wings stretching out before fluttering back in. He slipped his pants from his legs next, and soon he was standing before you in nothing but his underwear. Gods he was stunning.
“I need to take a bath before bed,” he told you.
You nodded, sliding your slippers from your feet as you gazed around his room, still flustered from your conversation. When you noticed him hovering in front of you, your gaze snapped back to his, eyebrows slightly raising in question.
Azriel seemed nervous as he looked at you, his throat bobbing before finally asking quietly, “Would you like to join me?”
Your heart stopped before jumping back up to a pounding pace. “In the bath?” you asked, hating how your voice squeaked in surprise.
Azriel’s cheeks were once again pink, and the sight made your stomach flutter. He nodded, his eyes hopeful and patient but not at all demanding.
You bit your lip as you debated his offer, nerves and desire warring inside you. “Would we do anything else?” you asked softly.
“We don’t have to,” he answered gently.
You shifted your weight on the bed, another moment of silence stretching between you. Then you nodded, your desire to be close to your mate winning out over any anxiety that clung to you. Azriel’s smile was radiant, and he reached for your hand to pull you up from the bed. “Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded again, fighting the stupid grin that was begging to stretch across your face. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then pulled you behind him to the bathing room, his bath already full of steaming water and bubbles.
Nerves fluttered in your chest as you stared at the oversized bathing pool. How did you do this? Did you just strip down in front of him? Cauldron, you were going to be bare in front of him. He had already seen and felt plenty of you, but this time there would be nothing hiding you from him.
There would be nothing hiding him from you either. You would both be vulnerable. You were both trusting one another with raw and exposed versions of yourselves.
“Do you want me to get in first?” Azriel asked, his hand brushing over the small of your back.
You nodded, meeting his gaze shyly. Azriel smiled, and then he slipped his fingers in the waistband of his underwear, slipping the last scrap of fabric from his body. Something coiled tight in your stomach at the sight of your mate, and you couldn’t help but stare at every inch of him before you. You felt a little guilty when you caught the deepening blush upon his cheeks, but then you saw the smug smile pulling at his lips, and your guilt dissipated. He wanted you to look.
He stepped into the bath with grace, sinking down into the water in bliss as the warmth enveloped his body. His eyes lingered on you, assessing and waiting for you to make your next move. You were so nervous as you stood in front of him, but you wanted this. You wanted to continue exploring intimacy and vulnerability with your mate. You wanted to remove the pause placed on your new endeavours after the spiral your mind went on a few weeks ago.
So you pulled your shirt over your head, clumsily undoing the wing slats as you felt Azriel’s gaze searing into your bare skin. You slid your satin shorts off, leaving you standing in front of him in only your undergarments. The reverence in Azriel’s gaze gave you the courage to undo the fabric bound around your chest, and then finally slip the last scrap of fabric down your legs.
You shakily moved toward the bath, and Azriel offered his hand to help steady you as you stepped inside. You sank down in front of him, the warm water immediately soothing some of the tension in your muscles, but then you shivered when one his shadows reached out to trace the skin of your collarbone.
Azriel grinned at you sheepishly when you glanced at him. “Sorry,” he murmured.
You settled back against the tub, your legs brushing against his, but neither of you moved. “No you’re not,” you hummed, shutting your eyes.
One of his legs stretched farther out, slowly tracing up your calf, and your breath caught in your throat. Nerves started to swirl low in your belly, and you fought to steel them before slowly opening your eyes. Azriel was watching you intently, something like awe and concern warring behind his irises, and you wished, not for the first time, that he had been blessed with a mate he didn’t always have to worry over.
Azriel reached forward to clutch your ankle, the water sloshing around him with the movement. “I worry because I love you,” he murmured quietly, though his gaze was intense as he held your own. Your embarrassment creeped up your spine and flooded your cheeks. “It is a blessing to have someone to care about—to have you. It is not a burden.”
You sniffed slightly, looking away from him. “I need to learn how to close my side of the bond,” you muttered.
Azriel squeezed your ankle, and you reluctantly dragged your gaze back to him. “I’ll ask Rhys tomorrow to start training you,” he said quietly. “But you never have to hide anything from me. I want you to know how to shield yourself for your privacy, but never worry about it for my sake.”
“You always say the most perfect things,” you muttered, eyes scanning his face, taking in the droplets of moisture that clung to him from the steam of the bath. “It’s sickening.”
Azriel’s lips twitched, and you would be lying if you said you weren’t proud of the blush that bloomed over his cheeks. His hand slowly dragged up your calf, leaving goosebumps in its wake, until he rested it beneath your knee. “I’ve never been good at expressing myself,” he admitted quietly, and the vulnerability underlying his words made your heart clench. “But I don’t—” His throat bobbed, and he took in a shaky breath before starting again, “I just want you to feel safe. I don’t—I’m terrified of repeating the sins of my father, of falling into some innate instincts hidden inside me or—”
It was your turn to lean forward, water falling around you as you lifted your hand to cup his face. His eyes closed softly as he leaned into your touch, and he looked so boyish it made your head spin and your heart race. “You are not him,” you said, your tone hushed but holding no room for argument. “You could never be him, Az. You are the kindest and most loving male,” your voice cracked, “You love me, and you love your family with your whole heart. Please don’t ever think that.”
His eyes stayed closed as he whispered, “I have done terrible things.”
“We have all done terrible things.” His eyes opened, and you could see the argument forming on his lips, but you shook your head, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “It does not make you a terrible person.” You lifted your other hand to hold his face as well, and you leaned forward slowly to press your lips to his. Azriel practically melted against you, and how he could ever think he was anything like the devil who ruled his childhood was beyond you.
“My sweet and gentle mate,” you murmured against his lips, and your heart skipped as Azriel brushed his nose against yours. “I love you.”
Azriel went utterly still. His eyes were wide as they locked on yours, and when you saw the tear that escaped the corner of his eye, your heart cracked. You brushed it away easily, pressing your lips to his skin in its wake, then moving your lips back to his. “I love you,” you whispered again, your heart pounding and your nerves making you feel a little queasy, but Azriel deserved this. Even if you weren’t ready to give everything to him yet, he had your heart, and he deserved to know.
Azriel sniffed, and you knew he was fighting back anymore tears that were trying to escape. You brushed your thumb across his cheek one last time before pulling away, shuffling around awkwardly to turn your back to him.
Water splashed over the side as you slipped, and Azriel caught you by the waist. You fought through your embarrassment to continue your readjustment. “What are you doing, love?” Azriel asked, his voice watery even through his clear amusement.
You let out a small huff, slightly frustrated with your wings that never moved the way you intended. You heard Azriel’s breath stutter as you pushed yourself between his legs slightly, his hand squeezing your waist. “Y/N,” he murmured.
“I want to lay with my mate in the bath,” you finally answered, movements paused. “Is that alright?”
“Is that—” Azriel’s words died off, and his arm circled your waist, tugging you swiftly against his chest.
All of you was pressed against all of him, and your heart felt like it might beat right out of your chest. Your wings were splayed against his chest, and his head came down to press a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re magnificent,” he murmured, his other arm circling your waist to hug you close to him.
One of your hands rested over his, and he immediately turned his palm over to lace his fingers with yours. This somehow felt more vulnerable than anything else you had done with him—more vulnerable than when you came on his lap—even though you knew this would be as far as the two of you would go tonight.
His lips ghosted over the shell of your ear, and your body finally melted against his. “I love you,” he whispered, and the thread that wound your souls together pulsed in tandem.
~ ~ ~
The tension between you and Azriel was palpable. A week had passed since you shared that bath—a week of mounting desire and wanting that left you feeling like you might snap if he so much as breathed in your direction. Every time the two of you bared another piece of your souls to one another, it only made you want him more. It made you greedy—it made you want to consume every last piece of him until there was nothing left to give.
But you were still scared. You were still scared to give him every last piece of yourself—and well, it wouldn’t be fair to take and not give. Thank the Mother for Rhys’s lessons in shielding this week, or else Azriel would have been privy to every one of your incredibly inappropriate thoughts.
He had certainly heard some—there was no denying that from the smug smirk that would stretch across his face when you ogled him at training or stared a little too long at him across the dinner table. He had not done anything about it, though. You knew he was waiting for you. You knew he was letting you decide how long you wanted to suffer in your desire, before you were the one to finally break.
You also knew he simply respected you, and that logical part of you made you want to scream.
His arm was currently wrapped around you as you sat beside him on a couch in the House of Wind, your side pressed against his and your wings folded together with his. Your friends—your family, as they all continued to remind you—chattered around you happily, and you knew you should have been paying attention to their conversation, but all you could think about was the scent of Azriel wrapped around you. The muscles of his chest hidden from you by the sweater he wore, and the touch of his fingers lazily tracing up and down your arm.
Nesta glanced at you knowingly from her chair beside you, and you immediately avoided her gaze. You played with the hem of Azriel’s sweater, your fingers dusting over the warm skin above his waistband. When his breath caught so subtly, so briefly you would have missed it had your head not been pressed to his chest, you felt your control snap. You stood up far too suddenly, catching the attention of everyone around you, but you only cared about Azriel’s wide and curious eyes. You swallowed hard, fighting the warmth that was creeping up your neck, hoping to maintain a little dignity tonight.
You grabbed Azriel’s hand, pulling him to stand and then dragging him behind you as you moved toward the hallway that would lead you to his room. You murmured a weak excuse about not feeling well to everyone else, and Azriel’s hand only squeezed your own as he followed dutifully behind you.
You tugged him inside his room, a few lights glimmering to life as you shut the door, and he stared at you expectantly. “Are you alright?” he asked.
You bit your lip, taking him in little by little, appreciating every curve and dip of his carefully crafted body that held centuries of stories. You wanted them all.
You took his face in his hands, his eyes widening slightly before you pressed your lips to his, your desperation no doubt seeping into your fervent kiss. At least he had the decency to return your kiss with little hesitation, his fervor matching your own as you rocked him back a step. You broke away briefly to murmur, “I want you to touch me.”
You immediately molded your lips to his again, your teeth tugging at his bottom one as he pulled away. “Sweetheart,” he breathed out, “Wait a second—”
You whined, pulling his head back down to meet your lips. You dragged your kisses from his lips to his jaw, then trailed them over his neck, his tall frame hunched over to let you kiss him to your liking. Azriel’s hands squeezed your hips. “I need you to tell me how you want me,” he murmured.
You felt so clouded with desire, and you trusted Azriel to do whatever he needed to do to take care of you—to give you what you needed. “I want all of you. Everything,” you breathed out. You tugged at his sweater, pressing a kiss to the base of his neck. “Please show me?”
Azriel licked his lips as his hand came up to brush your hair behind your ear. His chest rose and fell with slightly heavier breaths as his eyes danced over your face, before he finally leaned down to brush his own kiss against your neck. You immediately went limp in his hold, desperate for him to just do something. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about all night?” he hummed. “All week?”
Your face was hot, but you nodded nonetheless. “Your scent,” he growled, “has been very distracting.”
Something much less pleasant wafted over you. “Oh gods—you mean everyone—”
He quieted your worries with a gentle kiss to your lips, then dragged his mouth back to your ear. “Only me,” he murmured. “Only I could smell you. My shadows made sure of it.”
You relaxed with his words, leaning into his touch again. “Thank you,” you whispered.
“You never have to thank me,” he murmured, and then his grip on you tightened as he pulled you even closer. He trailed kisses down your neck to your collarbone, and when his hands wandered higher, when they ghosted over the swell of your chest through the fabric of your shirt, you couldn’t stop the desperate whimper that fell from your lips.
Azriel’s hands then snaked beneath the hem of the fabric, his hands tracing tantalizing patterns over your bare skin, but never going higher or lower than your stomach. “My mate wants me to touch her,” he hummed, almost as if to himself. “I should probably give her what she wants.”
“Please,” you whimpered.
“Please,” he murmured back, more fondness than mocking in his tone. “Of course I will, baby.” He tugged at the hem of your shirt. “And you’ll tell me if there is something you don’t want.”
It wasn’t really a question, but you nodded anyway. He pulled your shirt off you, mindful of your wings, and then his own quickly joined yours on the floor. He turned you around gently, his fingers undoing the clasps of your delicate undergarments and then dropping it to the floor. His hands traced over every inch of your skin before finally cupping your breasts, his fingers pulling at your nipples just hard enough to pull a moan from you.
His lips were busy pressing kisses over the back of your neck, the only thing that kept you from going completely limp against his body, but then he pulled you flush against his chest. His hands trailed down your stomach, toying with the waistband of your pants before sliding his hand between your legs, and you wanted the pants gone.
You could feel Azriel smirking against your shoulder as his hands moved back up to slip his fingers under the waist of your pants again, this time pulling them down slowly. He stayed crouched behind you, and your breaths were heavy as you waited for him to remove the last piece of fabric hiding you from him.
He didn’t make you wait long, only toying with the scrap of silk for a moment before sliding them down your legs. His hands bracketed your legs, and he dragged them all of the way up your calves to your thighs, then over your hips as he rose to his full height again, pulling you back into his chest.
“So stunning,” he mumbled. “All mine.”
Your heart skipped a beat, and your mind turned to mush under his possessive words and touch. You weren’t oblivious. You knew Azriel was possessive. You saw the way he glowered at Rhys and Cassian when they hugged you, the way they smirked at each other when they caught his glare. You also knew he did his best to hide that from you—that he was worried it would scare you—but it didn’t. It made you feel wanted. It made you feel desired and loved.
Azriel was possessive, but he was never suffocating. He was never controlling, and you could recognize the difference now. So you murmured back, “All yours.”
He groaned, burying his face in your neck. Then finally—finally—his hand trailed down your stomach again, all the way down until he reached your center. You were aching for his touch, and you thought you might faint from dizzy desire if he didn’t move faster.
He collected the wetness pooling at your core, dragging it up and over your flesh, repeating the motion until he reached your most sensitive bundle of nerves, and a pleasure unlike any other built at the base of your spine. You clutched at the arm he kept wrapped around you, spanning your stomach and chest, moans falling from your lips with every ministration he made. “Azriel,” you gasped as he circled your clit over and over. “I need more,” you begged.
He pressed a kiss below your ear as he dragged his fingers down, one of them circling your entrance. You gasped, your hips shifting to chase his touch, to beg him to enter you. He slowly slipped his finger inside, the intrusion stinging ever so slightly before morphing into intense pleasure. He groaned against you, his breath hot against your skin. “I need you to relax,” he murmured. “You’re clenching so tight, baby.”
You tried to do as he said, tried to let go a little, but he still didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” you whined.
“Don’t,” he hushed softly. “Don’t apologize, baby. You’re perfect.”
You nodded slightly, but you were still tense, and when Azriel pulled his hand from you, the disappointment that doused over you was staggering.
Then he murmured, “Let’s try it this way.” He pulled you with him to the bed, pushing you back onto the downy comforter that instantly wrapped you in an intense wave of his scent, and you sank into the mattress as he climbed on top of you. His fingers trailed over the curve of your waist before dragging back down to your core, and he kissed you as he slid his finger inside you again.
You moaned against his lips as he went further this time, his touch so deep it made your core flutter. His own moans morphed with yours, and you tugged at the bond between you without really thinking. It made him shudder, his body falling into yours as he fought to keep his weight from crushing you. He tugged back, and you gasped at the warmth and love that flooded through you, the world tilting slightly around you as you clutched to Azriel.
He slowly added a second finger, gently stretching you until he could easily slide both fingers in at once, electricity pulsing up your spine as you faded into the ecstasy bubbling inside you. Every touch, every stroke, every tug on the bond, brought you higher and higher, until you weren’t entirely certain where you ended and Azriel began.
It was ethereal, this feeling. This closeness to your mate. The trust and reverence and love flowing back and forth between you like a living breathing thing. Azriel was trailing kisses up and along your neck and jaw, whispering sweet words of encouragement that you frankly couldn’t comprehend. You felt smudged around the edges, like the sharp lines and corners you had boxed yourself inside over the years were fraying to make room for him, and it was euphoric.
You were so close. Azriel knew you were close—he probably knew before you even realized it—and when your nails sank into his back as he worked you higher and higher, he only moaned and praised you. “My sweet mate,” he hummed, breathless. You moaned, preening under his newest name for you, and you absently thought it might be your favorite.
“Let go for me,” he breathed out. “I’ve got you. Just let go.”
His words sent you toppling over the edge, and you shuddered beneath him as the electricity pulsing up your spine fanned out, zapping every inch of you with all-consuming pleasure. You held Azriel close, desperate to keep his skin pressed to yours, even as he gently coaxed you through your release, waiting for you to come down.
He pressed his lips to yours, the kiss slow and sweet and loving, even as you trembled beneath him from your high. His hand moved away from your center to hold you by the waist, his fingers tracing delicate patterns on your hot and flushed skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, and your face grew even hotter, thinking about all he had just seen and touched.
He was hard against you, and his skin was just as hot and flushed as yours. His breaths were heavy, but still controlled—unlike yours, which were uneven and shaky. You could feel yourself starting to unravel, the threads holding you together beginning to fray at the edges as you came back to yourself and your mind cleared from the fog of your desire. As you thought about what came next, about what everything might actually entail, and—and maybe you weren’t ready.
You weren’t ready.
Gods, you weren’t ready.
You told him you were, though. You told him you wanted everything. He was expecting it. He wanted it. He clearly wanted it and—
Azriel pressed the softest kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering on your skin for a moment before he dragged his face down to nuzzle into your neck. He then rolled off of you, shuffling around until he dragged the covers up over the two of you and he pulled you into his chest, your cheek pressed against his warm skin.
You didn’t understand. “Azriel—”
He squeezed you, shushing you gently as he draped a wing over you. His wing rested on top of your own, and you relished in the new and intimate touch that sent a wave of warmth through you—entirely different from the intimate pleasure he gave you moments ago, or the trepidation you felt from him pressed against you. This felt safe. An intimate peace that you would argue was almost better than anything else he had given you.
Yet you couldn’t shake the slimy sheen of guilt and shame that clung to you, the doubt that you would ever be ready to give him anything in return. The doubt that you were such a poorly matched mate for the Spymaster of the Night Court.
Azriel’s arms tightened around you, him inhaling your scent before letting out the smallest but most content sigh. “I love you,” he hummed, and your eyes burned. “Unconditionally.” You hoped he didn’t feel the tear that escaped from the corner of your eye.
~ ~ ~
Rita’s was…a lot.
It was loud. It was hot. It was crowded.
And you couldn’t find your mate.
Mor’s hand was clutched around your bicep as she laughed far too loud at something Feyre said, Feyre grinning back at her proudly. They both held a glazed expression that made the crinkles around their eyes form a little slower, their laughter a little delayed despite being entirely too loud. Your own laughter joined theirs easily as you thought about how absurd this was.
Your mind was fuzzy. Swimming. Bobbing up and down along the current of music and lights and bodies flowing around you. This was good. A chance to let go, Mor had said. It was her birthday, after all. You couldn’t miss her birthday. You were still trying to adjust to having friends—family. You didn’t want to mess it up.
Mor had handed you one colorful drink after the next, the liquids somehow both bitter and sweet, burning all the way down to your stomach. They were nothing like the few glasses of wine you had tried at family dinners.
You weren’t sure you liked it—this feeling. You felt sluggish. Like your thoughts and your actions weren’t entirely synced up, and there was a nagging feeling that you should care a little more about the many bodies around you, but you really didn’t.
You really wanted your mate.
Mor shoved another glass into your hand, this one a bright and shimmering blue. She and Feyre clinked their glasses against yours, and you followed their motion easily as they downed the liquid. It burned a little less this time, but it still fell heavily in your stomach.
The two of them dragged you into the middle of the floor, guiding you along with the music. Mor grinned as she made your hips sway back and forth, cheering when you continued the movement once she let go. It felt strange. Unnatural yet entirely intuitive to move your body with the music. Then someone bumped into your wings, and uninhibited fear shot through you.
“Where is Azriel?” you yelled at Mor.
She rolled her eyes playfully, clearly missing the urgency in your tone. “Who cares! It’s my birthday!” She threw her arms over your shoulders, swaying to the music, but your movements had grown stiff despite the fluidity of your mind. Someone brushed against your wings again, and your stomach turned. Azriel. Azriel. Azriel.
A hand slipped around your waist from behind, and you went completely rigid. But then a low voice you knew like your own skin whispered softly in your ear, “It’s only me.”
You fell away from Mor, ignoring her pout as you turned toward Azriel, his gaze much sharper than Mor or Feyre’s. Sharper than yours too, probably. His scent wrapped around you like a blanket, permeating the wretched air of the sweaty bodies around you. You leaned forward, nose nearly grazing his chest as you wobbled a bit. “You smell good,” you mumbled.
“Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured, his eyes glowing under the lights. “Are you alright?”
A slow, lazy smile stretched across your lips. Your fear was long forgotten, now that Azriel was here, and his hands were on your waist. You pressed your body against his, your arms reaching up to circle around his neck. He studied you with a mix of fondness and confusion, and when you leaned up even more to press your lips to his, he only returned your kiss for a few seconds before breaking away.
You whined at the loss of contact, your lips pouting as your forehead fell into his chest. “Y/N,” Azriel laughed, one of his hands rubbing up and down your back. Your name sounded pretty on his lips.
“I feel funny,” you muttered against his chest, leaning even more of your weight onto him.
Azriel shifted your body around so that his arm was tucked around your waist, and you were leaning heavily into his side. You giggled when you looked down at your feet, the floor seeming to stretch away from you. “Let’s get some air,” Azriel said.
He guided the two of you through the throng of bodies, sidestepping Cassian’s attempted hug on your way toward the door. The air was cool and crisp against your flushed skin once you tumbled out of the exit, Azriel’s arm tightening around you when you missed one of the steps. You giggled, your head falling against him as he righted you. He was so warm. You loved him. A lot.
“I love you, Sweetheart,” Azriel hummed, brushing some hair out of your face. Your skin felt hot.
“I think it’s time we go home,” Azriel murmured, his eyes dancing over your face. You blinked lazily at him, only slightly nodding as your body started to grow a little heavy.
“Home,” you agreed.
~ ~ ~
Azriel liked taking care of you.
He loved it, actually.
He loved the trust you handed to him when you let him care for you. He loved watching you give him that trust more and more easily every day. He loved earning it. He loved you.
He loved watching you dance and laugh at Rita’s, slowly loosening up around Feyre and Mor—though he was fairly certain that was partly because of the drinks Mor continuously handed you. He didn’t love it when he felt a sharp stab of terror in the center of his chest, and he saw you standing rigid in the middle of the dance floor. He was already pushing through the sea of sweaty bodies when he heard you say his name, when he felt you tug on the bond, intentionally or not.
As soon as he reached you, and found you unharmed, albeit highly intoxicated, he might have felt a glimmer of pride that you immediately reached for him. He felt that same pride now, that same self-satisfaction that you were in his room, sprawled out on his bed, while you let him pick out clothes for you to sleep in.
Cool fingers dragged over the back of his wing, and Azriel sucked in a sharp breath, clutching the shirt in his hands tightly. You giggled lightly behind him, but your touch was far from innocent. Your fingers dragged over his wing all the way to his spine, then traced every vertebrae down to his waist. When your hand slowly circled his waist to play with the waistband at the front of his pants, Azriel finally had enough mind to ask, “What are you doing, love?”
You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm pressing against the hot skin of his abdomen, and Azriel was doing his very best to keep control of his shadows that were starting to circle the two of you excitedly. You pressed your cheek to the center of his back, practically hugging him from behind. “I want you to fuck me, Az.”
Azriel went still. Only when you started to drag your hand lower again did he reach for it, clutching your wrist gently but firm enough to halt your movements. He turned around slowly so he could face you, the shirt previously in his hand now on the floor.
“Sweetheart—”
“No,” you whimpered, “No. I want you to. Please. Please.”
Azriel’s heart cracked when he watched your eyes grow glossy. “Y/N—”
“I know you want to,” you whispered, your glassy eyes looking up into his. “I know I keep—” You wobbled a bit, and Azriel moved to hold you by the waist. “I keep disappointing you.”
“No, you don’t,” Azriel rushed out, his chest feeling tight. “Never. You could never disappoint me.”
You tugged at his hold, although the motion was weak. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Azriel murmured, his hands moving up to cup your face.
“I want this,” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly. “I want to give you this.”
“Y/N,” Azriel started, trying his best to keep his voice steady and gentle. “The only thing we’re doing tonight is going to sleep.”
Your lip wobbled slightly, and a tear slid from the corner of your eye. Azriel immediately brushed it away, his heart bruised and cracked in his chest as he held your face in his hands.
“I know I won’t be good—”
“Stop,” Azriel ordered, his voice still soft, but he could feel his control on his anger hanging by a thread. He was ready to fly to that damned camp in Illyria and burn it to the ground. “We are not doing anything tonight, because I will not touch you while you’re like this.” His thumb brushed over the top of your cheek, your eyes struggling to stay locked on his. “Not because I do not desire you, or I do not want to. Of course I want to—but only when you are ready. It’s about us—not me.”
He could tell his words were swimming around in your head, struggling to sink down and settle inside you. He wasn’t sure how much you would recall tomorrow, or even minutes from now, and he just wanted to get you into bed and hold you while you slept.
He wrapped his arms around you, tucking your small and unsteady frame against his, inhaling the scent of you that was mixed with the faint smell of alcohol. He held you for a minute, until your breathing grew steady and the bond between you was no longer quivering with so much uncertainty. He pressed a kiss to your temple, then gently moved you to sit on the edge of the bed.
He kicked the shirt he dropped on the floor to the side, then pulled out a fresh one for you to change into. He held it out to you. “Here,” he said.
You stared at it, blinking slowly, but you didn’t move. “Sweetheart,” he murmured.
You slowly dragged your gaze up to his, and his stomach turned at the glossy sheen coating your eyes. “Do you want me to leave?” you asked, your voice so small and tired.
“No,” Azriel answered quickly, his arm falling back to his side. “Of course not.” He didn’t know where the question came from, but he knew you were in no state to be questioned.
You licked your dry lips, and he reached for the glass of water sitting on his night stand. He handed it to you, and you took it lazily, a bit sloshing over the side and into your lap. Then you brought it to your lips, but Azriel was fairly certain more ended up on your shirt than in your mouth. He took the glass from you, wincing at the wet stain on your front.
He tried to hand the shirt to you again. “Put this on, baby.”
Your lips twitched. “I like when you call me that.”
Azriel was well aware just how much you liked the name. He couldn’t help the small smirk that pulled at his lips when he answered, “I know.”
You didn’t really acknowledge his response, though. “It makes me feel all—” You put your hands out in front of you, wiggling your fingers. “Sparkly.” You nodded, agreeing with yourself. Gods, Azriel loved you. “Baby. It’s sweet. Soft. I feel soft. You make me feel soft, and like, gooey. It’s nice.” Your words were tinged with a soft slur as you rambled. Your eyes were wide as they met his again. “I love you.”
Azriel’s eyes stung with his own barely restrained emotions. He was glad your mind had wandered away from the self-doubt and negativity clouding your thoughts, but even now—your words were so pure. For something as simple as calling you baby to make you so happy? Azriel couldn’t decide if it was endearing or heartbreaking. His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, and your head leaned into his touch. “I love you,” he murmured.
You turned your head into his palm, smiling into his hand, and Azriel nearly melted right there. “Get changed, then we can go to bed,” he tried one more time.
You nuzzled into his palm. “Can you just do it for me?” you murmured, your eyes starting to droop.
Azriel hesitated, but then he watched you head loll against him, and your eyes flutter shut. He looked at the wet stain on your shirt and the tight pants clinging to your thighs—the ones you had never been fully comfortable wearing tonight to begin with. He couldn’t leave you like this.
There was a difference between taking advantage of you and taking care of his mate, Azriel decided. So he gently coaxed you to sit back up, and he undid the wing slats in the back of your top. You hummed lowly when his fingers accidentally grazed the base of one of your wings, and Azriel’s heart skipped a beat. His fingers gently curled around the hem of your shirt, then pulled it up and over your head before tossing it in his hamper.
His breath caught in his throat when you reached up to undo the lacy undergarment wrapped tight around your chest, the material falling at your waist. Azriel picked it up, tossing it with the rest of the clothes, and then gently coaxed his clean shirt over your head. The fabric swallowed you whole, and he didn’t bother with the wing slats, knowing you never did at night either.
He popped the button of your pants open before sliding them down your legs and tossing them aside. Your hands came up to cup his cheeks, squishing them slightly. “You’re the best mate.”
Azriel thought he might have been glowing from the praise, and he knew his cheeks were pink from the heat that flooded his face. He stood to his full height again, quickly removing his own clothes so he could finally curl up in bed with you.
Then you said, “I’m trying.” Azriel was standing in only his underwear when he looked at you. “I’m trying to be a good mate for you.”
“You are the best mate,” he cooed, brushing your hand behind your ear. “You don’t have to try.” He pressed his forehead to yours, his heart bleeding from the holes you poked in it tonight. “Unconditional love, remember?”
You nodded, the movement so small Azriel nearly missed it. He sighed, pressing a kiss to your forehead before pulling back. He pulled back the covers for you, guiding you gently to climb under them. “Let’s go to bed.”
Azriel’s mind was swimming once he was tucked under the covers with you, your face pressed against his chest, and breaths coming out in small pants against his skin. He held you to him close, breathing in your scent as if it was a balm for his soul that ached for you.
In all of Azriel’s five centuries of life, he had never felt this way toward another person. He loved his family. He was protective. He would die for any of them, without hesitation. He would do the same for you, of course, but it was different.
He would die for you—but he also lived and breathed for you. Everything he did, it was for you. Not a minute went by that he didn’t feel your tether to him, that he didn’t relish in the bond that pulsed between the two of you. He loved you, but sometimes love didn’t feel like a big enough word.
There was a bone deep understanding that was shared between you. Azriel had never felt so raw and authentically himself with another person. His soul was yours, and you never questioned the bent and mangled pieces of it.
To know that you thought that you weren’t a good mate, that you needed to have sex for him to be happy, that you thought you needed to get drunk and let him fuck you to make him happy—it made Azriel’s stomach turn. Acid stung the back of his throat as his mind replayed the night over and over again. As he thought about all you had endured and suffered through in only a few decades of life.
He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, rubbing your arm gently. “I love you,” he whispered. “With my whole heart.”
~ ~ ~
The heat from your mug of coffee seeped into your fingers as you cradled it in front of you. Someone behind you dropped a plate on the floor, its shatter making you wince. You slowly brought the mug to your lips to sip at the steaming liquid you had grown addicted to since arriving in Velaris, and this morning it was downright medicinal.
“Why exactly did we have to come here this morning?” you grumbled as you sat the mug back down.
Azriel sat across from you, a smug grin pulling at his lips that made your irritation bubble. He shrugged, leaning forward to take a sip of his tea. “We’re spending the day together.”
That made you pause. “What about training?”
“They can go one day without me.”
You shook your head a bit. “Azriel, you have other responsibilities more important than—”
“You are the most important.”
Your breath caught in your throat, and when you met his wide and slightly frazzled eyes, you found yourself wondering what the hell you had said to him last night. Bits and pieces were coming back to you slowly, but it was all a blur once Mor dragged you back onto the dance floor. You barely remembered Azriel taking you home and tucking you into bed.
Azriel licked his lips, his wings twitching slightly behind him. You had never seen him so agitated. “You are the most important thing in my life,” he said again, this time softer. “And I would like to spend the day with my mate.”
It had been months since you and Azriel spent an entire day together. Since you first came to Velaris, probably. You would be lying if you said the prospect didn’t make you giddy—but your excitement was slightly dulled by the throbbing in your skull. “That’s very sweet,” you murmured, taking another sip of coffee. “But did it have to be the morning of my very first hangover?”
Azriel’s cheeks tinted pink. “I’m sorry.”
You couldn’t help but smile. “It’s okay.” You reached for his hand, wrapping your fingers around his. “What are we doing first?”
Azriel grinned sheepishly, then nodded to your coffee. “Finish that, and eat your pastry. Then we can go.”
You swallowed down the rest of your food and coffee a little faster than you would have liked, but you were eager to see where Azriel planned to take you. Admittedly, your explorations of Velaris had been minimal.
You drank in the many colors and faeries and shops that decorated the city streets as Azriel walked hand in hand with you down the stone path. You expected him to pull you in and out of shops, but instead he guided the two of you up and down the winding streets, letting you stare and ogle and anything you found beautiful. You could walk around Velaris while holding Azriel’s hand all day long and be perfectly content.
Your eyes caught on a particular shop with mannequins in the window—mannequins wearing only skimpy and lacy scraps of fabric. Mor had lectured you on your lack of variety of undergarments last night before leaving for Rita’s, forced to borrow one of her bras to fit the top she had given you. You didn’t see the appeal at first, but once you slipped the lace on and stared at yourself in the mirror—you felt beautiful. Alluring. You wanted to know how Azriel would react to you in the lacy undergarment.
You didn’t realize your steps had slowed to a stop until Azriel squeezed your hand. You glanced at him, then back at the mannequins. Your cheeks were warm as you asked, “Would you like it if I wore lingerie?”
Silence stretched between you, and you found yourself wishing you could stuff the words back in your mouth. “Y/N,” Azriel finally murmured, his hand coming up to turn your face toward him. You swallowed hard, feeling so silly and naive for asking such a ridiculous question. “You could wear a paper sack and I would think you’re stunning.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to pull away, but Azriel didn’t let you. “You don’t have to wear lingerie for me.”
“But would you like it?” you asked again.
Azriel’s eyes softened. “Would you?”
You shrugged, glancing at the mannequins. “It’s pretty.”
He shocked you with a kiss to your lips, just a simple peck that stole your breath. “If you ever decide to wear some lacy little things,” he murmured low in your ear, “you will look like an absolute masterpiece.”
Goosebumps pebbled your skin as he pulled away, and you nodded dumbly.
He studied you for a moment, then asked, “How much do you remember from last night?”
You giggled nervously, rubbing at your palm. “Not a lot,” you admitted. “Bits and pieces. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drank—”
Azriel grabbed your hand again, threading his fingers through yours before guiding you toward a quieter place along the Sidra. “That’s not why I’m asking, baby.” Gods, that name. “You were safe. I was there, and you were with Mor and Feyre. You did nothing wrong.”
He shook his head softly. “You said something last night, and I just—” He paused, and your mind started running with what kind of nonsense you might have spewed last night. “You don’t have to try to earn your title as my mate. There’s nothing to earn. It’s yours.”
Tears burned at your eyes. “I don’t remember—”
“It’s okay,” he soothed, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I know last night was a lot. But I need you to know that you are my mate, and I love you. There is nothing to doubt.”
He kissed you again, cradling your face like you were something precious. “You are my everything.”
His words were like honey, sweet and raw as they slid over you, and you did your best to believe him. To accept his words as truth, because you knew Azriel would never lie to you. Cauldron only knew what you said last night to prompt this profession, but you trusted him. You trusted him not to hold it against you, and if he wasn’t going to make you relive it—well, you were grateful to be spared the inevitable mortification.
You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head in the center of his chest. “Thank you,” you murmured. For everything.
Azriel returned your hug easily, his hand brushing gently along your spine and in between your wings. “You don’t have to thank me,” he grumbled. Then, as if he felt your rising protest, he pressed a kiss to your head and said, “But you’re welcome, my love.”
~ ~ ~
It was Azriel’s birthday. He refused to celebrate it, would barely even acknowledge it, according to his family. Convincing Azriel to celebrate anything about himself was akin to pulling teeth, apparently.
Their warnings didn’t stop you from kissing him awake this morning and whispering happy birthday in his ear, though. Azriel didn’t seem to mind. He smiled softly at you as he blinked the sleep from his eyes, pressing another kiss to your lips as he murmured his thanks.
That was the end of it, though. He got up from bed and started going through his morning routine, then kissed you once more before going to training, as if it was any other day. You had never been privy to birthday celebrations either, but you always thought they should be special. You should be surrounded by people who love you on the day you were born. Azriel deserved to be celebrated.
Now you were standing in a cabin in the middle of nowhere (very, very far from any Illyrian camps, promised Rhsyand), waiting for your mate. You were trembling slightly with anticipation, with worry that this was a monumentally bad idea. Despite his aversion to his birthday, maybe he didn’t want his day to be shared with this. Maybe you were making this day about yourself.
What if he thought you were only doing this because it was his birthday?
You weren’t. You knew you weren’t. You had been contemplating when you wanted to do this since that day he walked you around Velaris—no longer was it a question of if you wanted to accept the bond, but when and where. Really, if you were honest, you had known you wanted to accept it since Azriel brought you to Velaris. It just took a little longer for you to come to terms with that.
So with the help of Rhys, you prepared a birthday dinner for Azriel. Nothing elaborate or ostentatious—just a simple beef stew with potatoes and biscuits that Rhys promised was Azriel’s favorite meal growing up. A recipe crafted by Azriel’s mother that was passed to Rhysand’s.
The door to the cabin creaked open slowly, revealing a wary Azriel standing in the doorway. He smiled when he saw you, running his fingers through his hair to brush away the snow.
“Hi,” you greeted, rocking slightly on your feet.
Azriel’s grin widened. “Hi,” he said. He shut the door behind him before kicking off his boots. “I half expected an ambush by our family.”
You swallowed the nerves bubbling up in your throat, shaking your head. “No—no, it’s just us.”
He closed the distance between you, his hands coming up to hold your face as he leaned in for a kiss. “That’s perfect,” he murmured against your lips.
He planted another kiss, and then another, before eventually pulling away. His eyes fell to the food spread out behind you, and he went utterly still. “Y/N—”
“I know it’s presumptuous!” you hurried out, turning around to face the table. Your face was molten as you felt Azriel’s gaze sear into your skin. “I know that, and if—if it’s too much, it’s okay.” You wrung your hands, watching the steam rise from the pot of stew at the center of the table. “I just, your family said you don’t like your birthday, and everyone deserves to like their birthday, so I thought, maybe if you had something extra to celebrate—not that we need more reason to celebrate—”
“Sweetheart,” Azriel murmured softly, brushing his knuckles over your cheek before turning you to face him. “I would love nothing more.”
Some of the tension in your body immediately fell away. “Yeah?” you asked.
He nodded, his eyes soft. “I told you, whenever you’re ready to accept the bond, I will be too. I am ready,” he murmured. “But are you?”
You nodded, none of your nerves for tonight stemming from doubt about this. “I am.”
His throat bobbed. “And the mating frenzy?”
You nodded again, nerves swimming around in your stomach, but you were still certain. “I know it will be overwhelming—for both of us—but I trust you, Azriel. I want this with you.”
You picked up a bowl on the table, scooping some of the soup into the bowl before handing it to Azriel. “Happy Birthday, my mate.”
Azriel’s eyes were wet as he took the bowl from you, and your heart thudded in your chest as he stared down at the stew. A wave of love and adoration unlike anything you had ever felt washed over the bond, and you had to fight back your own tears as you watched him take his first bite. The bond between you pulled taught, and utter euphoria flooded you from head to toe. What was once a thread twined around your souls was now thick as a rope, pulsing and glowing with the love you two shared.
The shift in the room was palpable when Azriel sat the bowl down a little too hard, his spoon clinking against the ceramic. He moved closer, closing the distance between you in just a few quick steps, and his hand reached up to thread through your hair at the back of your head.
“I love you,” he mumbled, his voice strained. “And I’m going to ravish you.”
Your stomach swooped as he picked you up by the back of your legs, clutching your body to his as he carried you into one of the many bedrooms. He dropped you on the bed, quickly climbing over you as you adjusted your wings to start pressing kisses along your collarbone. You whimpered when he sucked a little harder, a little longer on an especially sensitive part of your neck.
He broke away only to pull your dress up, and when his eyes flared at the midnight blue lace covering your center your face flushed. He hurried to pull the dress over your head and tossed it on the floor, admiring the matching lace stretched across your chest. He groaned, burying his face in the center of your chest before pressing a kiss to the swell of your breast.
“Do you like it?” you asked, breathless as he started to mouth at your nipple over the lace.
Azriel chuckled lowly, the sound making you shudder with anticipation. “A damn masterpiece.” He reached around you for the clasp. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the patience to admire right now.”
You couldn’t help but agree. Relief and pleasure like no other coursed up and down your spine when his lips wrapped around your chest, sucking and pulling and dragging his teeth across you. One of his hands slid down to your center, easily collecting the wetness pooling at your core to drag his fingers up and down the sensitive flesh.
This was more frantic, more rapid than anything you had done with him before, but you loved it. You loved seeing him so undone, so desperate to have you. You relished in the anticipation for what was to come, knowing tonight would be filled with nothing but pleasure and love as you gave all of yourself to your mate, and he did the same.
His finger slipped inside you easily, and a moan escaped your lips. His strokes were fast but deliberate, deft ministrations meant only to pleasure you. “Be as loud as you want,” Azriel murmured, his eyes fixated on where his hand met your center. You weren’t sure when he had slid your underwear off. His eyes snapped up to yours, his pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushed. “Do you see this?” he asked, voice low. “Do you see how pretty you look? My sweet, sweet mate.”
You moaned when you felt a second finger circling your opening, and when he gently hooked it inside with the other you relished in the stretch—in the fullness. “More,” you whimpered. You needed it. You needed him.
His eyes met yours briefly, but his strokes didn’t stop. “More?” he asked, a small smile pulling at his lips. “You want more?”
You nodded, the movement desperate and jerky as your hips bucked into his hand. “Please,” you begged.
His third finger slid in easily, but the stretch was a lot. It burned a little, and your breathing was heavy as your walls fluttered around his fingers. His strokes slowed as he watched you, waiting and assessing. It was torture.
“Move, Azriel,” you moaned. “Please move.”
He didn’t hesitate. His fingers worked you higher and higher, his strokes growing faster and faster as you chased euphoria. Azriel sank to his stomach, his eyes glinting as they watched you, and then his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves. His tongue came out to circle it, and when he moaned as his tongue slid between your folds, you fell over the edge. Your entire body shook as your pleasure rose through you, panting and trembling as your hand blindly threaded through Azriel’s hair.
“Gods,” you moaned as he slid his fingers from you, leaving you feeling empty and hollow.
He pressed a kiss to your hip bone. Then he climbed back over your body to press a kiss to your lips, the taste of yourself on his mouth absolutely erotic. “I’m going to fuck you,” he murmured low into your ear, his hands working quickly to shove his pants down his legs. He pulled his shirt off too, leaving him in just his underwear—then that was gone too.
Azriel was big. You knew this. You had seen him naked before, had felt him pressed against you in the bath. You had never seen him hard though, never seen him so overcome by his own desire, and you would be lying if you said it wasn’t a little intimidating.
His eyes watched yours as he wrapped a hand around his shaft, pumping twice before sliding it across your center. “Fuck,” you whined when he hit your clit, still sensitive from you orgasm. He did it again, and you shuddered. “Azriel,” you moaned.
“So fucking beautiful,” he rasped, watching himself drag through your wet and swollen pussy. “I love you,” he panted, pressing a hard and frantic kiss to your lips.
“I love you,” you returned, barely coherent enough to form the words. You reached for one of his hands, threading your fingers through his as he worked himself over you in tortuously languid strokes.
“Az,” you whispered, and his eyes slowly met yours. You swallowed hard, all of the emotions and nerves that had been swimming around inside you finally cresting. “Please be gentle.”
His dark eyes softened, and his strokes stopped. “Of course.” The hand on your hip came up to cup your cheek, his other squeezing your hand tightly. “Baby, I would never hurt you. We can still stop.” You knew he would stop. You knew he would do it without hesitation, even now as he was near trembling above you and his wings were twitching restlessly—Azriel would do anything for you. Mating frenzy be damned, he would never hurt you.
And Gods, you did not want him to stop. “Please,” you whispered, your own free hand coming up to stroke his cheek. “Please fuck me.”
Azriel shuddered, his head falling to the crease between your shoulder and neck, his wings fluttering around you. He pressed a kiss to your skin, and then he leaned further into you, his lips dragging over the ridge of your wing.
“Az,” you whimpered. He pressed kisses over and over along the delicate membrane, each one making your heart race faster.
“Your trust in me,” he rasped, “Letting me touch your wings—kiss them—it means the world.”
He pressed one last kiss to your wing before coming back for your lips. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, and you tried to fight the tears that were welling behind your eyes. “I’m so proud of you. So proud to call you my mate.”
His cock slid against you, the tip notching against your entrance. Your hips lifted into him, desperate to have him inside you. His lips folded against yours, his tongue licking leisurely into your mouth. “I’m going to be so gentle. I’m going to take care of you.”
The stretch of him pushing inside you was indescribable. A mix of pleasure and pain unlike anything you had ever experienced. You felt so full, but his sweet words against your mouth and his hand intertwined with yours helped you relax for him. “I’m always going to take care of you. Always going to take care of my mate.” He pushed a little deeper, both of your moaning. “My sweet and precious mate. The best mate.”
He pushed even deeper, and you thought you might explode, but it felt so good. “I love you,” you told him again, voice high pitched and frantic. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, baby.” He pulled back out slowly, just until only the tip him was left inside you, and then pushed back in gently, somehow going even further.
“Oh fuck,” you groaned. “Wait a minute, Az. Give—” You gasped. “—Give me a minute.”
“Okay,” he soothed, his breath coming out in pants. His hips were pressed against yours, and you realized he was fully inside you. It was so perfect, having all of him inside you. “Take your time, honey.”
Another name to make you quiver. Where he pulled all these sweet endearments from you didn’t know, but Cauldron did you love them. You shifted your hips a bit, Azriel groaning against you as his head fell to your chest. “Sweetheart—”
“I’m sorry,” you gasped, involuntarily doing it again. “I’m sorry.”
“No, no,” Azriel shushed, but his voice sounded strained. “I just—I don’t know how long I’m going to last,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
“You can move,” you whispered. “Please move.”
“Thank fuck,” he whimpered, his hips rutting against you. He pulled out, then pushed back in, this time a little faster. He repeated the motion, over and over, his strokes going faster and faster.
He pressed his forehead against yours, gazing down at where the two of you connected. The bond between the two of you pulsed with electricity, alive with love and desire and affection and just everything good you shared with Azriel.
“I’m close,” he whispered, and that alone pushed you even higher. You were desperate to see him come undone, to witness his pleasure take over—and knowing it was because of you—it made you feral.
His hand came down between you, his fingers working your clit with quick and frantic strokes. “Are you going to come for me again?” he breathed.
“Yes.” You nodded, head pushed back against the pillows. “Yes.”
“Good,” he breathed out. “Good. You’re so good. So perfect for me.” His hips stuttered a bit, Azriel moaning. “So good, baby.”
Then he tugged at the bond between you, and you gasped, an entirely new wave of ecstasy taking over all of your senses. You were shaking as you came, and when Azriel fell on top of you, his hips snapping against yours as he filled you, you felt almost lightheaded.
“Fuck,” Azriel moaned. Eventually his body went limp, and his weight was a welcome and grounding presence on top of you. Your arm curled around him, your fingers stroking gently at the back of his head.
“How will we ever get enough of this?” you whispered. “I think I already want more.”
Azriel laughed lightly, pushing himself up enough to gently pull out of you, making you whimper. “I know,” he cooed. He rolled off of you to lay beside you, but he quickly pulled you back into his chest, making gentle strokes across your skin. “That’s the mating frenzy.”
You nuzzled your nose against his chest. “Is it always like this?” you hummed.
“It’s only starting, sweetheart. It usually takes a few weeks—”
“Weeks?” you exclaimed, head tilting up toward him.
He smiled down at you. “Yeah, honey. Rhys was well aware that helping you with this meant giving up his cabin for a bit.”
You bit your lip, cheeks warm. “I wondered why he was so insistent on using it.”
Azriel laughed, pulling you closer. “Remind me to thank him.”
You smiled, but then shook your head. “That’s not what I meant, though. I—the sex. Is it always so…consuming?” Azriel’s eyes softened as you searched for the words. “I felt…” You didn’t know how to even describe it.
Azriel shook his head, seeming to understand. “It’s never felt that way before.” He stroked your hair gently. “I think the mating bond amplifies everything. Then add in the frenzy…”
You nodded against him, exhaustion starting to make your body feel heavy despite the desire still coursing through you. You inhaled his scent, not discrete in the slightest, and you relaxed a little more into him. His shadows stroked along your cheek, making a return from wherever he had sequestered them away to.
“I think we should rest for a bit,” Azriel murmured.
You huffed a bit, but you shifted closer to him, loving the feel of your bare skin pressed against his. You basked in the love pulsing up and down the bond that twined your souls together, a sacred connection unlike anything you ever let yourself envision for your future. You had convinced yourself that a life of eternal solitude was better than risking any more pain—then Azriel came along and stomped those notions to dust. He showed you love. He showed you patience and compassion. He showed you how to live, not just survive.
He fought for you when no one else had. He had tended to your bond and love with bare and gentle hands, patiently coaxing it to life when it had started as nothing more than a battered sapling.
You loved him. Eternally.
“Azriel,” you whispered, splaying your palm over his heart.
He hummed, his own exhaustion creeping in.
“Our souls are bound for eternity.”
“They are,” he agreed softly.
You swallowed hard, silence stretching momentarily between you. “Thank you for not giving up on me,” you whispered.
His arm tightened around you. “I would never.”
You closed your eyes, nuzzling into his chest as you let out a deep breath. “I love you.”
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, then laid back into the disheveled pillows before pulling you even closer. “I love you, my sweet mate.”
Everyone's giving Beetee shit for using the same plan twice, but nobody is giving Snow nearly enough shit for letting Beetee near an arena again and not having a plan for the exact thing he tried last time.
warnings: SMUT, 18+, spanking, shadow bondage, use of a gag, blow job, daddy kink, edging, —oh god what else uh— Azriel’s kind of mean ig, oral on female, biting, hickies, p in v penetration, let me know if i forgot anything 😅
a/n: i’m not sure what demon possessed me to write this but i’m starting my period so we’ll blame that. and who let me write a threesome as my first smut EVER? i was stressing fr but i hope it’s good *bites nails nervously* i also added some fluffy aftercare at the end. enjoy!!
Part 1
Shadows bound your hands to the foot of the four-poster bed, positioning you to stand before it, facing the wall. Azriel and Cassian were behind you, but you couldn’t see them. You tried to focus on the painting above the bed, waves crashing into rocky cliffs under a full moon, but your body was fully tuned in on what the Illyrians could be doing behind you. The heady scents of all of your arousal filled the room, only amplifying the heat that’s overcome your body. Your breasts rose and fell with heavy breaths, the anticipation and fear for what was to come overwhelming you.
Azriel had silenced you with a gag, telling you that apologies were useless and that he’d decide when your mouth would serve a purpose.
You heard movement behind you, and a shiver ran down your spine as something traced its way down your back. A sharp smack to your ass had you gasping, nearly choking on your saliva.
“I’m very disappointed in you, angel,” Azriel chastised, dragging the riding crop up the side of your thighs. Your knees nearly buckled at the sudden adrenaline rushing through you. “I thought I would come home to my good girl and we could have some fun together, but instead I have to remind you how to behave. Who you belong to.”
Your whines were muffled, the urge to apologize on your tongue but it was useless. He couldn’t understand you. It was exactly what he wanted. He knew you would say you were sorry and beg for him to forgive you, but you had gone too far. He didn’t want to hear your pleas. He wanted you to take it.
“You know, I was on a very important mission when Rhys entered my mind to tell me that Cass requested I come home. I thought surely my little girl would be able to behave for one week but then he tells me that you weren’t eating,” *swat* “or training,” *swat* “and disobeying him,” *swat*.
Tears gathered in your eyes, incomprehensible mumbles leaving your lips. You couldn’t see your ass, but it burned from Azriel’s relentless spankings. You were sure it was red and raw by now.
Azriel clicked his tongue. “I’ll admit I was shocked. You’re usually so good for Cass, saving all that bratty behavior for me.” A hand wrapped around your hair and tugged, bending your neck so you looked up at him. Hazel eyes simmering with rage met your bloodshot eyes. “That’s why I’m going to let him have his turn with you. Usually, he likes to just watch but I think after the week he’s had,” he chuckled darkly, “I think he deserves to have his way with you.”
The shadows released your wrists and you were shoved down onto the mattress. When you pushed yourself up to your hands and knees, Cassian was already situating himself in front of you, wings spread behind him as he stroked his cock. He smirked as he looked down at you, and that only served to send a shiver down your spine.
“You can take the gag out now, Cass,” Azriel said.
Cassian gently cupped your face as he loosened the gag just enough to slide it down to your neck. Calloused hands pinched and twisted your nipples, earning short and breathless gasps from you.
You dared to look behind you at Azriel. He still had his pants on but he was shirtless, the swirling black tattoos on his chest and climbing up his neck on full display. His shadows swarmed him in harsh, sharp motions, reflecting his feelings about your recent behavior.
Cassian grabbed your chin, forcing you to face him again. His large hand cupped the back of your head, guiding you to his red, swollen cock. You took it in your mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you sucked languidly. He threw his head back with a groan as he rocked his hips towards your mouth. “Fuck, sweetheart, just like that.”
You felt the bed dip behind you as scarred hands gripped your waist. Cassian’s hold on your head became a little more forceful, his fingers threading through your hair. Azriel positioned himself under you, pulling your hips down so you sat on his face. You bucked as Azriel licked a long stripe up your folds then focused his tongue on your hole, swirling his tongue around before pushing it in and out. His nose rubbed against your clit with every motion as Cassian started fucking your mouth. Hands gripping the sheets, a strangled moan escaped you, muffled by Cassian’s cock, and you ground yourself down on Azriel’s face eager for more friction before he smacked your ass and pulled away.
You whimpered at the loss of contact, your pussy clenching around nothing as arousal dripped down your inner thighs.
“This is a punishment, angel,” Azriel scolds. “You take what we give you and nothing more. You don’t cum until we say you can. Do you understand?”
Cassian pulled his cock out of your mouth. “Yes, Daddy,” you gasped, desperate for them to keep touching you.
Cassian chuckled as he looked into your wide, dilated eyes. “Look at our needy girl. You’re already a mess aren’t you?”
He didn’t let you finish your mumbling before sticking his cock back in your mouth. It was salty with the taste of his pre-cum, your tongue running up and down the soft, veiny skin. Your jaw ached as you sucked him off and saliva dripped down your face onto the bed. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment you clenched your eyes shut, focusing on the up-and-down motion Cassian was guiding you in.
You nearly bit him in shock when you felt something cold touch your pussy, but he only shoved you farther down as you gagged on him. “Don’t you worry about what Az is doing back there, sweetheart. We’ve got it all under control.”
Azriel huffed a laugh as the cold, foreign object circled around your entrance. “She knows exactly what this is, don’t you, love?”
You whined and squirmed as the realization settled over you. It wasn’t unfamiliar, but Azriel rarely used it and reserved it for when you’d been especially bad. When you hadn’t earned the privilege of feeling his cock just yet. The glass dildo.
Moaning as he inserted it, you tried to refrain from sinking back on it lest he take it away. His large, scarred hand smoothed up your spine and pressed down in the center of your shoulder blades, arching your back the way he liked. Cassian picked up the pace with his thrusts in your mouth, and it was then you noticed Azriel wasn’t moving the dildo but only using the momentum of Cass’ thrusts that rocked you backward.
Your walls clenched helplessly, begging for more but being greedy would only get you in more trouble. You wanted to be a good girl. Maybe, if you behaved, he’d let you cum eventually. Azriel was relentless in the bedroom, expertly bringing you to the edge of climax only to rip it away, leaving you crying and desperate. He was the Torture Master, after all—skilled in delivering both pain and pleasure, balancing on the fine line between agony and ecstasy.
Cassian’s grip on your hair tightened, his thrusts stuttering before he grunted as his cum shot down your throat. “Oh fuck, keep going. That’s it.”
You took him deeper, swallowing every drop before releasing his cock with a pop. Azriel pushed the dildo in faster now and you moaned as your face landed on the mattress, arching your back even further. You felt yourself reaching a climax, but much to your chagrin Azriel pulled the dildo out.
He quickly flipped you over, leaving you slightly dazed as you watched him unbuckle his pants and slip them down his muscular thighs. His cock sprung free and you practically drooled at the sight of it. He smirked at you as he stroked it slowly, as if he knows how badly you want it. He grabbed your ankles and yanked you to the edge of the bed before leaning over you and blessing you with a quick, feverish kiss, then put the gag back in your mouth.
You whined and thrashed in indignation, causing Azriel to deliver a sharp smack to your thigh to end that nonsense. “That bratty mouth of yours is half to blame for the trouble you’re in,” he said.
Cassian lifted you up by the shoulders, placing you between his legs so you could lean back on his chest. You sighed and relaxed against him, going pliant as he brushed your hair to the side and kissed your neck. “Be a good girl so we can take this out,” he tapped the rubber ball sticking out of your mouth, “and then maybe you’ll be rewarded with an orgasm. You want that don’t you, sweet girl?” he whispered in your ear.
You shivered at his words but nodded. You wanted that very much. It felt as if you might combust if you couldn’t find release soon. Your pussy was throbbing, begging for someone to touch it and make you feel good.
Azriel was already on his knees on the floor in front of you when you looked up at him. He threw each of your legs over a shoulder, and he gradually licked his way up your thigh. Your eyes rolled back as he bit the supple skin of your thigh, his nails digging into the other. Between Cassian licking and nibbling at your neck, and Azriel sinking his teeth into your thighs it was a delicious mix of pleasure and pain.
You couldn’t help but watch Azriel. Shadows curled around him like living things, but the look in his eyes chilled you to the bone. Predatory, possessive, hungry. He had you spread out before him, shadows wrapping around your wrists to keep them pinned to the sheets so he had you exactly where he wanted.
“You smell so sweet,” he murmured, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your dripping pussy. The teasing flick of his tongue followed, sending tingles down to your toes.
Your hips bucked involuntarily, seeking relief, but Azriel merely shook his head. “Patience,” he chided, pressing your thighs wider apart. “You’ll take what I give you.”
A slow, torturous drag of his tongue over your aching pussy had you moaning, your fingers curling into the sheets. He groaned against you, the deep vibration making your toes curl. His tongue moved with calculated precision, tracing every sensitive spot, circling your clit before pulling away just enough to make you whimper.
“My needy little girl,” he teased, his lips brushing against your swollen skin before he sucked your clit into his mouth. The sensation sent a lightning bolt of pleasure through you, a muffled cry tearing from your throat.
His grip on your thighs tightened as he devoured you, his tongue relentless, his fingers pressing bruises into your skin to keep you from squirming away. He wanted you desperate, ruined, shaking apart beneath him.
When he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, you nearly sobbed.
His only response was a dark chuckle before he sucked harder, thrusting his fingers in time with the flick of his tongue. The pressure built fast, too much and not enough, your body writhing as pleasure coiled tight in your core.
“That’s enough, I think,” he said as he pulled away.
Tears streamed down your face, frustration building inside you, and if it wasn’t for the cauldron-forsaken gag you would curse him out.
Cassian tutted as he wiped away your tears with his knuckles. “Oh, poor girl. He’s being so mean isn’t he?”
You nodded, nuzzling into his neck for comfort. This was torture. Your thighs shook and you choked around the gag. Blessedly, Cassian decided to have some mercy on you and unbuckled it. You took deep, greedy gulps of air, tilting your head back on Cass’ shoulder as he ran his hands up and down your arms in an effort to soothe you.
Azriel sat next to you and stroked your jaw with his thumb. “Do you need to use your safe word?”
You shook your head, “I’m fine. Promise.”
He nodded and kissed your temple. “Go ahead and sit against the headboard, Cass.”
Cassian kissed your cheek before doing as Azriel bid. You watched his abs ripple as he got comfortable, fluffing up the pillows behind him.
Cassian met your gaze with a lazy smirk as Azriel approached behind you. The heat in his eyes sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, but it was nothing compared to the dominance in Azriel’s voice as he murmured into your ear.
“Ride him.”
Your breath hitched, your body already buzzing from the weight of his command.
“You can do that for me, can’t you?” he asked, his voice was a low rasp. One of his hands slid between your thighs, teasing, coaxing. “Be a good girl and show me how desperate you are.”
You exhaled shakily and crawled toward Cassian.
Cassian hummed in approval, his hands settling on your thighs. His pupils were blown wide with lust. “Such a good girl.”
With trembling hands, you reached for Cassian’s broad shoulders, lifting yourself just enough to sink down onto him. The stretch was delicious, Cassian groaning as you took him inch by inch. Azriel’s hands found your hips, guiding you, controlling even as you rode the other male.
“Fuck,” Cassian growled, his grip tightening on your thighs. “Look at you. So fucking perfect.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Azriel’s hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back so his lips brushed against your ear. “Don’t stop until I tell you.” His voice was pure sin, sending shivers down your spine. “Make him fall apart for me.”
“Yes, sir,” you whispered hoarsely.
Your nails dug into Cassian’s shoulders as you moved, moaning every time you felt his head reach your entrance. It was bliss, everything you’ve been wanting. Azriel started biting your neck and sucking on your jawline. You’d surely have marks later but that made it all the more enjoyable.
You and Cassian’s moans echoed in the room, along with the sound of your skin slapping together and the wetness dripping off of you onto his pelvis. Azriel kept his hands on your hips but you were able to take some control back as you bounced up and down.
“Feel so good,” you slurred.
You felt Azriel smile against your jaw as he nipped at the skin. “I bet our sweet girl wants to cum. What do you think, Cass?”
“I’m about to myself, it would be cruel not to let her join,” Cassian chuckled.
Azriel took the lobe of your ear between his teeth and pulled down causing you to gasp at the sensation. “Does that sound good, angel? Do you want Daddy to let you cum?”
“Please, please, please,” you chanted. It was a miracle you hadn’t already, but it only would have drawn out your punishment for longer. You had certainly learned your lesson this time and want nothing more than for Azriel to let you finish. A sheen of sweat coated your skin and your heart pounded in your chest. Your body is exhausted, muscles sore from being so tense. Pleasure coiled deep within you, winding tighter with every touch—a burning tension building to the breaking point, ready to snap and send you spiraling into bliss.
“Beg,” Azriel demanded.
You swallowed thickly, trying to soothe your scratchy throat. “Please, Daddy, please let me cum.”
“Will you be good for Cass the next time I leave?” he asked as one of his hands found your clit, circling slowly.
“Yes, yes, I will I promise.”
Azriel hummed and tilted his head as if considering. He glanced at Cassian who had his eyes clenched and head tilted toward the ceiling, like he was trying his best to wait for you.
Finally, he clicked his tongue and said, “You can cum.”
You cried out as Cassian sped up the pace, jerking his hips up to meet yours at a punishing pace before you toppled over the edge together, your pussy pulsating and squeezing his cock. You cried out as blinding pleasure coursed through you, your vision blacking out momentarily. Cassian moaned as he continued to thrust inside you, chasing every last shockwave of the same ecstasy you felt.
You collapsed on top of Cassian’s chest, his cock still inside you. You were panting, desperate for more precious air. His warm, calloused fingers stroking gently down your arms, grounding you. His expression, usually filled with teasing grins or cocky smirks, was nothing but concern now. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
You nodded, but the exhaustion tugging at your limbs made you feel boneless, too drained to do anything but lean into him. Your breath was still uneven, your heart hammering in your chest.
Then Azriel was there beside him, brushing his knuckles over your cheek, hazel eyes scanning your face as if he could read every thought running through your mind. “You did so good,” he murmured.
Cassian started running his fingers through your damp hair and pressed a kiss to your temple.
Azriel’s touch was featherlight as he traced over your wrist—the spot where his shadows had held you. There was no guilt in his gaze, just a quiet, unwavering attentiveness. “Tell us what you need,” he said softly. “Water? Something to eat? A bath?”
It took a moment to find your voice. “Water,” you croaked.
He was up in an instant, disappearing into the en suite and returning moments later with a glass. He sat beside you again, lifting the glass to your lips and tilting it just enough for you to take slow sips. “That’s it,” he murmured, watching you closely. “Take your time.”
You gulped down the water, the chill a balm to the burning in your throat. You sighed as you finished the glass and laid your head back down on Cassian.
Azriel set the glass aside, then helped Cassian remove himself from inside you, shifting you slightly so your legs were slung over his. Azriel reached for a damp cloth, running it over your skin with tender precision. He wiped away the lingering sweat and fluids, caressing every inch of you with care.
Once he was finished, Azriel tossed the cloth onto the bedside table before pulling the blankets up over you, tucking you in before slipping beneath them himself. Cassian shifted, maneuvering you to be pressed between them as he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. Azriel settled on your other side, his wings partially draped around you, cocooning you in warmth.
Cassian’s fingers trailed up and down your spine in slow, soothing strokes leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Do you want to talk about it now or wait?” he asked, his voice gentle.
You hesitated, then buried your face further into his chest.
“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “You’re not in trouble anymore, and you won’t be in trouble for anything you say right now.”
Azriel nodded. “He’s right. And you know it always helps to talk through it. We won’t be upset with you,” he promised.
You rolled over, eyes staring up at the ceiling as your hand found Azriel’s and he intertwined your fingers. You glanced at him then, voice cracking as you spoke. “I missed you.”
“Oh, love, I missed you too,” he frowned, then brought your hand to his lips to kiss it. “But that doesn’t mean you can just act like a brat for Cass.”
“I know, but I just..” you looked to Cassian, guilt and sadness shining in your eyes. “You were so busy, and I know it’s not your fault that you have so much to do but I was sad and lonely, and it felt like you didn’t have any time for me. At least when I acted out you paid attention to me.”
Cassian’s face fell and he cupped your jaw as he kissed you slowly. “I am so sorry, sweet girl,” he whispered. He pressed his forehead to yours. “Next time Az has to go out of town I will make sure I have more time for you. I will tell Rhys to suck if I have to.” You both huffed a laugh. “You are the most important thing to me, and it breaks my heart that you felt that way. It will never happen again,” he vowed.
Azriel tucked rogue strands of hair behind your ear. “Feel better, angel?”
You sniffled as you nodded, tears pricking your eyes.
“Aw, don’t cry, love. What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I just love you both so much and I—I’m sorry for how I behaved. I just hate it when either of you leave and I might have to lock you in here to keep you to myself,” you blubbered. Both males chuckled, squeezing you tighter between them.
“We’re here now,” Cassian assured.
“And we’re not going anywhere any time soon, Rhys’ demands be damned. I think we’re due for a mate-cation,” Azriel joked.
You let out a shaky giggle, the sound thick with tears and uneven breaths. But the weight of them, their bodies, and their reassurances grounded you more than anything else.
Azriel pressed his lips to your hair, his thumb moving in a slow, steady pattern on your hip. “You’re okay, my love,” he murmured. “Just relax.”
You let out a slow breath, feeling the tension finally start to drain from your body. The steady rhythm of their breathing surrounded you, their warmth and scents seeping into your skin.
And as you drifted toward sleep, nestled between them, you knew that you were loved. That despite your bratty-ness, they wouldn’t leave you. And that was the most comforting thought of all.
taglist (comment to join!): @tele86 @viktoriaashleyyx @pham-tastical @giovax @thelov3lybookworm @seeyalaterinnovator
a/n: happy valentine’s day to all my brats out there
@sjmromanceweek
Part 2
Azriel was away on a mission while you stayed at home with Cassian. Azriel was only supposed to be gone for a few days but then it turned into a week. You were upset, to say the least. You had half a mind to barge into Rhysand’s office, curse him for sending your mate away, and then demand he order him home. Cassian wouldn’t allow you to get into such trouble though. Your mates knew you well— too well. Cassian could practically smell the defiance on you grow every day that went by. In Azriel’s absence, you were turning into a bona fide brat.
It was just Cassian’s luck that dealing with this sort of attitude from you was more of Azriel’s forte than his. You were usually so sweet and obedient for Cass. But now, he’s convinced a demon has possessed his little angel and he can’t wait for Azriel to get home and handle this. Cassian had been dealing with you the best he could. He was a General for Cauldron’s sake, how could he not get one female to behave?
“Come on, sweetheart. That’s enough. It’s time to go, we’re going to be late,” Cassian said. He was standing at the end of your shared bed looking down at the lump of sheets he called his mate with his arms crossed over his chest.
“I don’t wanna go,” you mumbled into the pillow. And in case he didn’t hear you, you grabbed more blanket and yanked it over your head. There. The message ought to be loud and clear.
Cassian rolled his eyes. He did not have the patience that Azriel did. He was getting fed up with your antics.
Your defiant streak started out simple at first. You wouldn’t come or even respond when Cassian called for you across the house, when he was trying to usher you out the door you’d drag your feet and stomp complaining about Mother knows what, and you even slammed a door or two. Fine, he could handle that. What he can’t handle is you refusing to go to training three days in a row, turning your nose up at every meal in favor of the House sneaking you treats later, and your vicious snarling when he tried to encourage you to do literally anything.
“Alright,” he huffed.
You shrieked as all the blankets were thrown off you and Cassian dragged you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. He threw you over his shoulder and ignored the incessant whacking at his back as he strode into the bathing chamber. He sat you down on the counter, caging you in with his wings, and gripped your chin between his fingers. “Listen here, little miss,” you kicked his shin in a pathetic attempt at escape that only earned you a growl, “If you don’t want to go to training today, fine. I don’t imagine the Valkyries would appreciate your attitude either. But you are going to get dressed, and then you’re going to march your ass downstairs for breakfast. I’ll be back for lunch and then we are going to talk about what’s been going on with you. Understood?”
You crossed your arms and shook your head. “No.”
The General narrowed his eyes and cocked his head to the side. He’d kiss the pout right off your lips if he wasn’t sure that would only be feeding into your behavior. Instead, he placed his hands on your thighs and gave a little squeeze. “No?”
“Mm mm, no,” you shook your head again, more aggressively this time.
The first two days after Azriel left you had acted fine. It wasn’t until the third day when Cassian couldn’t take you to the bookstore in the afternoon, because he was busy training at Windhaven, that you started acting different. Az always took you to the bookstore that day of the week, it was part of your routine. The next day you got your ass kicked in training. You were slow, uncoordinated, and failed to use the blocks that should be ingrained in your muscle memory by now. You felt like a total idiot and just wanted to cry, but Cassian hadn’t even noticed as he supervised two other Valkyries sparring. You’d limped back to the house and licked your wounds alone, and Cass had gone straight to Windhaven after.
That had been the final straw. Your whole routine gets thrown upside down and Cassian can’t even drop off an hour or two of training shifts? He might as well have left with Azriel too, considering how much time he was spending everywhere but at the house with you. You knew it wasn't his fault Rhysand had him so busy, but you were frustrated, feeling trapped at the house with no means of leaving. As a Fae without wings, you were left to wait around, longing for their attention and companionship while they worked. You just wanted your mates back, and if that required you to act like the she-devil incarnate, then so be it.
Cassian dropped his head in momentary defeat. He wasn’t getting anywhere with you and he knew there was only one person that knew how to fix this. You loved both your mates equally but they were their own unique piece of the puzzle. They did not fit in the exact same place. While Cassian may be the General, to you he was your oversized, winged teddy bear. He never raised his voice at you outside of orders during training. He rarely told you no. He was the one you went to for a laugh, to get into trouble, or when you needed comfort only his arms could give. There was a reason there were the three of you and not just two, though. There was a balance, and right now the third piece of this arrangement was away on the Continent. Just as Cassian had his role, Azriel had his. Azriel provided the rules, the structure, and if necessary… the punishment.
“Do I need to tell Rhys to send Azriel home? Tell him that his sweet little mate can’t behave without him?” Cassian asked, leveling his eyes at you.
There was a flicker in your eyes. Of fear or excitement, he couldn't quite decide. But he did feel you squeeze your thighs together. “What do you mean?” you whispered.
He knew he had you then. In a low voice, he asked again, “Is that what you need? Azriel to come home and take care of this bratty attitude? I can't imagine he’ll be happy to be pulled away from his mission because someone doesn't know how to behave, but he will if I ask him to.”
“N-no, you don't need to bother him.” Your thighs clenched again, and you tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped.
Admittedly, you had never done this before. When it came to breaking rules for fun or to get what you want, that was mostly reserved for the bedroom with Azriel. It was something you two had explored many times, but it was usually Az initiating it. Cassian had witnessed some examples of it during the times the three of you had sex together. He knew you liked it when he and Az were in complete control, but he didn't know how to approach this new development alone.
He hummed, and his eyes glazed over for a moment. “You sure? Az has been gone for a while. It's okay if you need him to come remind you of your manners.”
“I’m sure,” you squeaked. “Please, I’ll be good.”
“I don't know, sweetheart. You had five days to show you could behave, and you didn't.” He tucked his wings in and backed away, finally giving you room to get off the counter. He gestured to the open door with his hand, “Go get dressed. Meet me downstairs when you're done.”
He didn't wait for you to refuse or argue. He just sauntered off out of the room, leaving you with a racing heart.
You managed to gather yourself and quickly pulled on a simple dress, but your heart raced with the anticipation of what would happen next. You made your way downstairs, the tension swirling inside you as Cassian’s words echoed in your mind. He rarely took on this authoritative role, and the thought of Azriel’s impending return had sent a pulse of excitement through you, even as you tried to convince yourself that you didn’t need him to come home just yet.
Cassian was waiting for you in the kitchen, arms crossed, his eyes fixed on you. He raised a brow, and you knew that he was waiting to see if you would keep your promise to behave.
You slipped into a chair, averting your eyes, trying to focus on anything but the heat of his gaze.
“Eat,” he ordered softly, but there was an edge to his voice that made your stomach flip again. You did as told, nibbling on the food set out for you, though it was hard to swallow with the anxiety growing in you.
The morning went by uneventfully after that, but the underlying threat of Azriel’s return lingered in the back of your mind, especially as Cassian kept a close watch on you, his presence more intense than usual.
By the time lunch rolled around, you were jittery, unable to sit still. Cassian walked in from the training grounds, wiping the sweat from his brow, and stopped just inside the doorway when he saw you sitting on the couch, fidgeting with your fingers.
Before he could say anything, the balcony door swung open, and a familiar presence filled the space. Your breath caught in your throat as Azriel stepped inside, the tension in his shoulders palpable. He locked eyes with you immediately, and you knew you were in for it.
“Welcome home,” Cassian said casually, though you noticed the hint of satisfaction in his voice as he glanced between the two of you. Azriel didn’t respond to him. His focus was entirely on you, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place.
“Come here,” Azriel commanded, his voice low and lethal, sending a shiver down your spine.
You hesitated for only a second before you stood and approached him slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. His shadows swirled around him, dark and foreboding, a reminder of the power he he had over you—and the punishment you were about to receive.
Azriel’s gloved fingers brushed your chin, tipping your head up to meet his piercing stare. “Cassian told me everything,” he murmured, his tone sending sparks of both fear and desire through you. “You’ve been a very bad girl.”
You swallowed thickly, trying to maintain your composure, but the truth was, you’d missed this—missed him. His control, his presence, the way he could make you fall apart with just a few words.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you whispered, but it sounded weak, even to your own ears.
Azriel’s grip on your chin tightened just slightly. “Sorry won’t cut it this time, pretty girl. You know better than to act out just because I’m not here.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting back the mix of excitement and nerves pooling in your stomach.
Without another word, Azriel’s shadows enveloped you, binding your wrists behind your back in a swift motion that left you breathless. He guided you towards the living room, where Cassian had discreetly taken a seat, watching the scene unfold with darkened eyes.
“Since you decided to act like a brat,” Azriel said, his voice smooth but filled with dominance, “I’m going to remind you who you belong to.”
He bent you over the arm of the couch, your cheek pressed against the soft cushion as his hand ran up the back of your thigh, lifting the hem of your dress. “You’ve earned yourself a punishment,” he continued, “and you’ll take every bit of it until you’ve learned your lesson.”
You bit your lip, trying to suppress the whimper that threatened to escape as Azriel’s touch ignited your skin, the anticipation of what was coming sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.
Cassian’s eyes burned into you from across the room, his presence only heightening your arousal. You knew this was exactly what you needed, what both your mates knew you craved deep down, even if you’d tried to fight it.
As Azriel’s hand came down in a sharp smack against your backside, you couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped your lips. He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging to be my good girl again.”
Summary: Azriel's shadows have always been loyal, always obeyed him without question. Until now. Until they start misbehaving whenever another man so much as looks at you.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,066
Notes: This is my first fic, I hope you like it! :)
~~~~~
The first time it happens, you don't think much of it.
You're at Rita's with the Inner Circle, nursing a drink at the bar while Cassian and Mor dance somewhere among the crowded space. The music thrums through the air, and the conversation hums around you when a male slides into an empty seat beside you.
"Didn't think someone like you would be sitting alone," he says, flashing a grin.
You don't even get the chance to respond before a flicker of something moves between you.
The male frowns, swiping at his hair, which has suddenly transformed from being neatly styled to sticking up in wild angles, as if an invisible force had run its hands through it... aggressively.
You blink in surprise.
He mutters a curse, trying to fix it, but the moment he smooths it down, the strands spring right back up. His frustration grows, hands swiping over his head repeatedly.
"I- what the hell?" he grumbles. "Is this air cursed or something?"
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a laugh.
And then you feel it.
A cool, familiar brush against your wrist.
Slowly, you glance down—just in time to see a shadow curling around your fingers before slipping away.
Your stomach flips.
You don't even need to turn around to know exactly where Azriel is.
~~~~~
The second time it happens, it's harder to ignore.
You and Azriel are training in the House of Wing, and the session has drawn some attention—mainly from a visiting group of Illyrians who very clearly wanted to spar with you.
One in particular, a cocky warrior named DAIN, is relentless. He lingers, circling the ring as Azriel corrects your stance, his gloved hands light against your arms.
"You sure you don't want a real sparring partner, sweetheart?" Dain calls, grinning. "I promise I'll go easy on you."
Azriel stills.
His fingers tighten ever so slightly before he steps back, shadows slithering at his feet. "She's training," he says evenly, but there's an obvious warning beneath the words.
Dain chuckles. "Training is nice and all, but I'd be happy to teach her a few things myself."
Something cold coils around your ankles.
Before you can react, the shadows yank. Not hard. Just enough to make you stumble backwards, right into Azriel's chest.
Your breath catches.
His hands steady you, fingers gripping your waist for a fraction of a second before he forces himself to let you.
You glance up at him, about to ask whether or not that was intentional, but his jaw is tight, hazel eyes locked on Dain.
Azriel's shadows have started to shift.
Not the lazy, fluid movements they usually have—but sharp, possessive flickers that wrap around you. One curls over your shoulder, while another drapes across your wrist, looping around like a claim.
You shiver, pulse skittering.
Dain seems to notice, too. His smirk falters, his eyes flicking between you and the swirling darkness. "Uh-"
The shadows snap toward him.
Not touching—just close. Close enough to make him step back.
You swear you hear them hiss.
Dain swallows hard. "Right. I, uh, should probably-"
Azriel doesn't blink. Doesn't move.
Dain takes the hint. He all but scrambles away, muttering under his breath.
And just like that, the shadows slip away, leaving you cold.
You whip around, crossing your arms. "What was that about?"
Azriel frowns, too casual. "What was what?"
"Oh, I don't know," you say dryly. "Maybe terrorizing a man into running for his life?"
His brow furrows, like he truly doesn't know what you're talking about. "I didn't do anything."
You narrow your eyes. Then one last shadow curls around your wrist before darting away like a child caught misbehaving.
Azriel glares at it.
Your lips part. "You have got to be kidding me."
His expression darkens as more shadows flick around you, playful now.
Azriel sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. "They don't usually-"
"Get jealous?" You finish for him, holding back a smile.
Silence.
His throat bobs.
And then—quietly, almost too quiet—you hear his shadows whisper something.
A name.
Your name.
And you realize—maybe it's not just his shadows who are jealous.
Your breath hitches. Azriel's wings rustle. And he looks like he's about to bolt.
Which is just unacceptable.
You cross your arms, tilting your head back to study him. "You know, I think your shadows like me more than they like you."
Azriel exhales sharply. "That's ridiculous."
"Is it?" You smirk, glancing down as a shadow curl lazily around your wrist. You give it a little wiggle, and the shadow clings tighter.
Azriel scowls at it. "Traitor."
A laugh bubbles out of you. You can't help it.
The great and terrifying Shadowsinger, bested by his own shadows.
"Oh, this is too good," you say, beaming up at him. "All this time, and they've secretly been on my side."
Azriel mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. His wings twitch again. His shadows flick in annoyance—except the ones still clinging to you, moving to curl around your waist like they never want to let go.
You bite back a grin. "I mean, it makes sense." You gesture vaguely at them. "They probably just think I'd be a much better master."
Azriel gives you a deadpan stare. "That's not how this works."
"I don't know," you hum, pretending to consider it. "They seem pretty happy right now."
As if to prove your point, one shadow playfully loops around your fingers.
Azriel glowers. "You're encouraging them."
You give him an innocent smile. "Would I do that?"
He sighs, but you catch it—the way the corner of his mouth twitches. The way his gaze softens, just a little.
And then, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, "They have good taste, at least."
Your breath catches.
Your teasing falters for half a second before you recover. "So, you admit they like me more?"
Azriel exhales, shaking his head. "You're impossible."
You grin. "And you love it."
He doesn't answer. But the way his shadows linger—curling, warm, content—tells you everything you need to know.
~~~~~
Cassian walks in moments later, takes one look at Azriel's shadows practically cuddling you, and immediately points.
"I knew it!" He boasts.
Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose. His shadows flick toward Cassian, clearly unimpressed.
And you?
You just laugh.
Because really—Azriel might deny it all he wants, but his shadows?
Summary: Forced into a marriage neither wanted, Y/n (a Hybern Nobel) and Azriel vowed to keep their distance. But as walls crack and truths emerge, they begin to wonder if a union born of duty could become something real.
Warnings: ANGST ANGST AND MORE ANGST, reallyyyyy longgg, smut towards the end, some elain x azriel, mentions of injuries and violence, just an overall mix of everything lmao.
See masterlist
Azriel stood at the edge of the table, his fists clenched at his sides, the room thick with the weight of silence. The Inner Circle was gathered, all eyes on Rhysand as the High Lord gave one last glance around the room before fixing his gaze on Azriel.
“Azriel,” Rhysand’s voice cut through the tension, calm but firm, “I thought you were smarter than this. You’re the only one without a mate. Everyone else has already found their bond. But we’ve been given an opportunity to secure peace, and I need you to understand this.”
The words barely registered at first. Azriel's mind was a storm, his thoughts consumed with a single image: Elain. The image of her had haunted him for weeks now. The way her smile would light up the room, the way her gentle spirit reached for his own, the warmth she exuded. He had thought...
But it had never been. The bond, the pull that others spoke of, had never shown itself, not with her. She was bonded to Lucien, and Azriel, for all his desire, had no claim.
Still, the bitter taste of that unspoken love clung to his tongue. He swallowed it down as his eyes snapped to Rhysand.
"Peace," Azriel echoed, his voice low, dangerous. "You're asking me to marry someone from Hybern? After everything they've done?" His voice trembled with restrained fury. He could already hear the echoes of war—the bloodshed, the pain, the hatred that simmered beneath the surface of every court, but none more than his own.
Rhysand’s eyes never wavered. "I know it's not easy. But we need this alliance, Azriel. If we want any chance at peace, this is the price. You are the only one who has yet to be bound, the only one who has the power to seal this deal."
Azriel pointed to Mor, who was sitting on one of the couches. "What about her?! She also has no gods damned mate!! Why does it have to be me?!!"
He didn't give a chance for anyone to say anything else before opening his mouth once more.
"You’re asking me to throw away everything I stand for. To sacrifice my pride. To marry into the very court that has been our enemy, that has caused us endless suffering." His voice was dangerously cold, and the room held its breath.
"I know it’s not fair,” Rhys said, his tone a little softer. “But it’s necessary. Azriel, this isn’t just about you. This is about ensuring our people survive. And the new King of Hybern is willing to agree to terms. But only if the marriage goes through. It’s temporary, a means to an end. Once both sides get what they want, then..." Rhys trailed off, a look of finality crossing his face. “Then, we’ll negotiate further. Divorce, if need be.”
Azriel was silent for a long moment, struggling against the deep, primal need to lash out. Every fiber of his being screamed in opposition to this. But then there was that sharp, guttural pain in his chest—the thought of Elain, her soft gaze, and the way he had foolishly imagined a future that could never be.
"You want me to marry someone from Hybern," Azriel said again, but it was more a statement than a question now. His eyes, usually hidden beneath the shadows, were intense, burning with the fury of someone whose heart was being torn in two. "And you want me to do it for peace? For a treaty?"
Rhys’s expression softened, but his voice remained firm. "You are loyal to your people, Azriel. I need you to be loyal to them now, more than ever."
The words were heavy in Azriel's chest, pushing him down, trapping him. He couldn’t look at any of them. Not at Cassian, who had been his brother in arms for so long, not at Feyre, whose gaze was filled with understanding, not at Mor, who seemed to sense the weight of his hesitation. They all knew this wasn’t about politics. It was about something far more personal.
"You’ll do it, Azriel," Rhysand said, his voice unwavering. “I know this is hard, but there’s no other choice. Your loyalty to this court is everything. And you’ll hold up your end, as you always do.”
Azriel wanted to scream, wanted to throw his shadow blades and tear this whole room apart. But instead, he locked eyes with his brother. "And if I don't? What then, Rhys?"
A moment of stillness passed, then Rhys gave a quiet, almost regretful sigh. "If you don’t, you risk everything we’ve built. And I won’t allow that. Not again."
The weight of those words crushed him, and Azriel's chest constricted painfully. The High Lord’s authority loomed over him like an insurmountable mountain, and there was no escaping it. He couldn’t refuse.
"Fine," Azriel spat, his voice raw. "I’ll do it. But don’t expect me to ever forgive you for this."
He heard a gasp come from somewhere in the room but paid no attention to who it was.
"You don’t have to," Rhysand replied, his tone sharp yet understanding. "But you’ll see. This will be for the best. Just trust me on this. Peace is fragile, Azriel. We cannot afford to lose it now."
Azriel nodded stiffly, the words of agreement tasting like ash in his mouth. His gaze shifted to the map sprawled on the table, but all he saw were flashes of the life he would never have. The life he thought he might have had with Elain, the love he had never confessed, now buried beneath the weight of duty.
"Who is it?" Azriel asked through gritted teeth, knowing the answer would crush him further.
Rhys leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking briefly to Cassian before he spoke. "Her name is y/n. A noble of Hybern’s court. Her family holds considerable power."
Azriel’s heart sank. Hybern. The very name twisted his insides. He had fought against them, bled for his people in the wars they waged. The thought of being tied to them—bound by marriage—was unbearable.
But in the end, there was no other choice. Rhys had laid out the terms, and Azriel had no leverage to pull back. The political game had been set. And so, with a sharp, resigned breath, Azriel forced himself to accept what he couldn’t change.
“I’ll do it. But I’m not doing it for Hybern. I’m doing it for you. For this court.” His voice was cold, void of any emotion.
Rhys’s gaze softened ever so slightly. "I know."
Azriel’s mind was a storm of bitterness and uncertainty, but deep down, he knew this was the only path forward. Even as his heart still ached for Elain, for the love that would never be, he forced himself to look at the bigger picture. This was the price for peace. And Azriel would bear it, no matter how much it tore at him inside.
-----
The carriage rumbled over the cobblestone streets of Velaris, but Y/N’s mind was a whirlwind, the sights and sounds of the city falling into a distant blur. She barely even noticed the glow of the lanterns lighting the streets or the way the city seemed to pulse with energy. All she could think about was the weight of the day ahead—the wedding, the marriage that had been forced upon her.
She had never once dreamed of this day. No, she had only ever dreamed of freedom. A life away from her father’s suffocating grip, away from the oppressive cruelty of Hybern’s court. But when the King of Hybern had made his announcement, that dream shattered. The words still echoed in her mind: "This marriage is your duty. It is for the good of the realm, for the future of Hybern. You will do your part." And her father, cold as ever, had simply agreed.
Her father. The man who had never once cared to listen to her, to understand her, who had always seen her as a means to an end. How many times had she pleaded with him to let her choose her own path? To let her make her own decisions? How many times had he silenced her with that patronizing smile and a cold word or two? He was no different from the King of Hybern, who had made this decision for her with no care for her opinion. She had been nothing more than a bargaining chip, an object to secure an alliance between two powerful courts.
The alliance with the Night Court.
Her stomach churned. She could feel the hatred rising in her chest as her mind wandered to him—the one she was about to marry. Azriel. The name alone made her skin crawl. She hated him. She hated his people. She hated everything they represented.
As someone from Hybern, she had been raised to view the other courts as the enemy. To despise them. To see their lands as the threat that had nearly destroyed her home, her family, her life. And Azriel… he was one of them. A member of the Night Court, the very court that had joined forces with the others to overthrow Hybern’s rule. He was a reminder of the battle that had torn her world apart, of the war that had left her with nothing but bitterness and a deep sense of betrayal.
Her heart pounded as the city stretched out before her. The streets of Velaris, with their beauty and elegance, felt like a mockery to her—another reminder of the life she would never have, a life she could never choose for herself. This wasn’t where she belonged. It wasn’t her world. She was being forced into a marriage with a man she loathed, a man who would never look at her with anything but disdain.
Why should she care? Why should she feel anything but anger? She had no reason to soften, no reason to accept this union as anything more than a political necessity. This marriage was about securing peace, about saving her people, and she would do her duty—if only because she had no other choice.
"Remember your place," her mother’s voice cut through her dark thoughts, as sharp and cold as always. "This marriage is for Hybern. For your family. Don’t forget that."
Y/n turned her gaze toward her mother, her face betraying nothing. She had long since stopped trying to earn her mother’s approval. Her mother had made it clear that affection was a weakness. Power was what mattered. And right now, that meant this marriage, this alliance.
The carriage came to a stop, and y/n’s stomach tightened even more. She was here. She was in Velaris, about to meet her future—her future with a man she couldn’t stand, in a city she didn’t belong to. The door swung open, and a servant stepped forward to assist her. She stepped out of the carriage, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar streets, taking in the sights, the smells, the people.
Everything felt so alien, so out of place. How could she stand here, knowing what was to come?
Her thoughts were interrupted as her mother’s sharp tone reached her again. "Come along, y/n. We must get you prepared. The sooner this is over, the better."
Her heart hardened, and she gave one last glance to the city before allowing herself to be ushered inside. There was no turning back now.
As she was led to the chambers where she would be dressed for her wedding, her mind remained fixed on one thing: Azriel. Her future husband, the male she would have to pretend to tolerate. A male who, like her, was a prisoner to the game of politics. And yet, that didn’t stop the rage that bubbled within her. She had to marry him, yes, but it didn’t mean she had to like him. She could be cold, distant, and bitter—and she would. After all, it was the only armor she had left.
The chambers they led her to were grand—opulent, even. The room smelled faintly of roses, a scent that would have once been comforting, but now only made her stomach twist in irritation. This was all too much. The fine silks, the elegant mirrors, the soft lighting—it felt like a cruel mockery of everything she had lost.
"Sit," a servant instructed her, guiding her to a large velvet chair. The disdain these people felt for her was palpable. Y/n obeyed without protest, though every fiber of her being screamed to run. To escape this whole situation. But she was not a child anymore. She had no more room to fight. Not in this.
Her mother stood off to the side, watching with a sharp gaze that never left her. "Do this right," she said coldly, "and remember why this is happening. This is your chance to bring honor to our family."
Y/n clenched her fists in her lap, biting back the words she so desperately wanted to scream. She would bring honor to no one, not for this. She wasn’t doing this for her family, or for Hybern. She was doing it because she had no choice. She hated the way her mother’s eyes gleamed with the certainty that this was all for the greater good. It was never about what y/n wanted. It was never about her.
The servants worked in silence, pulling the dress over her head and adjusting the delicate lace at the shoulders. It was beautiful—silk so fine it felt like water, ivory with subtle gold embroidery—and utterly suffocating. Every layer seemed to add more weight to her chest. She barely breathed as they fastened the gown and placed the veil over her hair. The look was regal, but it felt foreign on her. Like she was playing a role that didn’t fit.
“Don’t look so miserable,” her mother muttered, her voice bitter. “Smile at your future husband. This is your duty, and it will make you valuable. That’s all that matters in this world.”
Y/N fought the tears that threatened to spill. Her mother had never been kind, but this was the worst she had ever been. She had no room for sympathy, no space to feel anything but the weight of this arrangement. The day was about securing an alliance, a peace that would serve Hybern’s interests above all. It didn’t matter if she was happy. It didn’t matter if she was terrified. It didn’t matter if she was about to marry a man she couldn’t stand, a man who represented everything she hated.
"Isn’t that enough, Mother?" she muttered bitterly, her voice barely audible.
Her mother’s gaze flicked over her, sharp and calculating. “Do not think that you can win the affection of your husband. He does not care for you, y/n. And you should not care for him. If you do, it will be your downfall.”
Her words stung, but y/n didn’t allow herself to show it. What was the point? Her mother was right in one regard—this marriage wasn’t about love. It wasn’t even about friendship. It was about survival. Political survival. For Hybern, and for herself.
The weight of that reality pressed down on her once more as a servant carefully adjusted her veil. Everything felt far too delicate, too perfect—too much of a lie.
As they finished preparing her, y/n's’s thoughts wandered again to Azriel. She could feel the resentment building within her, a solid block of ice. The thought of him made her insides twist. A warrior. A spy. Cold and distant, just as his people were. Just as the Night Court had been. She had no affection for him. There was nothing between them, and there never would be.
His name echoed in her mind—Azriel. Her husband. The one who was not even there today, the one who had no interest in her. She couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same coldness, the same anger that churned in her chest.
But, then again, she didn’t care. Not really. She had no illusions about this marriage. The idea that he might be anything more than an obstacle in her path was laughable. This would be a cold union, one built on necessity, not love.
The door to the chambers opened once more with a soft creak, and her mother stepped forward, her eyes narrowing at her daughter. “Time to go, let us get this over with.” she said, her tone cold as ice.
Y/N took a deep breath, standing slowly, the weight of the gown pulling at her every step. Her heart hammered in her chest as she walked toward the door, the finality of what was about to happen closing in on her.
As they exited the chambers and made their way toward the venue, the sounds of the city faded once more. Velaris. The city of stars. She could see the grand procession ahead, and as the large doors of the venue opened before her, a rush of voices filled the air. The audience, the people waiting for this to happen, the ones who were so excited for the union. They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know what she felt.
Her chest tightened with every step.
She had no choice in this, and that made it worse.
But once she entered the venue, the grand hall before her, her gaze flicked to the front of the room, where Azriel stood, tall and unmoving. Her future. Her marriage.
And she loathed every single part of it.
------
Azriel’s jaw was tight as he stood at the altar, trying to contain the fury boiling within him. His brothers flanked him—Rhysand, his High Lord, standing on his left, and Cassian on his right. They both tried to speak in hushed tones, but Azriel barely heard them, his focus narrowed on the heavy silence that pressed down on him like an unseen weight. The quiet mutterings of the guests around them faded, but the tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to make his wings twitch with unease.
“Az, calm down,” Rhysand murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “This is just for politics. You know what’s at stake here. We need this alliance.”
“I don’t care about alliances,” Azriel muttered under his breath, his gaze hard as he stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes. His teeth ground together, the words of his bride-to-be echoing in his mind—“We’re both stuck in this. It’s not my choice either.”
Cassian leaned in, trying to catch Azriel’s gaze. “Listen, I know you’re angry. But this is the best path forward for everyone. You have no idea how much this will help us.”
Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. They don’t understand, he thought, his eyes flicking briefly toward the grand doors of the hall. The moment this marriage had been announced, he had felt as if the ground had been ripped out from beneath him. An arranged marriage with a stranger. A stranger from Hybern, no less. The kingdom he’d fought against, the same land that had caused so much suffering.
His fists clenched at his sides, and he resisted the urge to spread his wings, to take flight and leave it all behind. His thoughts were still consumed with Elain. His heart was still with her, even as his mind screamed at him to focus on what was in front of him.
Suddenly, the doors creaked open, and Azriel’s heart skipped a beat.
Y/N entered, her movements slow but purposeful, her posture regal yet somehow burdened. The long aisle stretched before her, and Azriel took a moment to study her, trying to push aside the bitterness gnawing at his insides. She was beautiful, no question about it. Atleast the slightly see-through veil suggested that. But there was something about the way she walked—something heavy in her gaze—that suggested a kind of sorrow he couldn’t ignore.
He felt her presence as she approached, like an invisible pull, yet his mind couldn’t seem to focus entirely on her. His chest tightened as she got closer, her figure framed by the soft glow of the candles lining the aisle. She was delicate, yet strong, the fabric of her gown brushing the floor with every step. Her features were soft, but her expression was unreadable, her eyes set straight ahead, avoiding his gaze. Azriel couldn’t help but notice the faint lines beneath her eyes, the subtle exhaustion that seemed to cling to her.
She looks nothing like Elain, he thought bitterly, his heart twisting in his chest.
When she reached him, standing by his side, the tension between them was thick enough to cut through with a knife. Rhysand gave him a pointed look, and Cassian nudged his shoulder, but Azriel remained unmoving. The ceremony dragged on in a haze. The words were distant, like an echo in his mind, meaningless and empty. Every word, every vow spoken felt like an iron chain tightening around his chest.
And then it was time.
The veil.
Azriel’s breath caught in his throat as the priestess gestured toward y/n, signaling that it was time for him to lift the veil. His fingers trembled slightly, his mind racing. The act felt too intimate, too personal for a woman he barely knew. But he did as required, his hands gentle but firm as he lifted the veil from her face.
Her features were more beautiful than he’d expected, her delicate bone structure and full lips something to admire. Her eyes, though—those haunted eyes—held a world of stories he could only guess at. She met his gaze for a fleeting moment, and it almost felt like she was searching for something in him, something that would reassure her. But he was too lost in his own thoughts, too consumed by the presence of Elain in his mind.
He forced himself to meet her gaze again, this time with more intent, and his heart twisted in his chest. What do I even see in her? The thought was fleeting, almost absurd, but there it was, gnawing at him like a bitter ache.
As the priestess finished, the moment arrived. The kiss. His gaze flickered to Elain, sitting in the front alongside her sisters, her face pale, her eyes filled with quiet sorrow. The soft curve of her mouth, the sadness in her expression—it was all too much for him. His heart pounded, the weight of the kiss pressing down on him as he slowly turned back to y/n.
She waited, her eyes still distant, her lips slightly parted in expectation. Azriel couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and frustration.
He didn’t want this. He didn’t want her. He couldn’t—He couldn’t kiss her with his heart still tied to Elain.
So, instead of pressing his lips to hers, he leaned forward and placed a quick, cold kiss on her cheek. His mouth lingered for only a moment, and he felt her stiffen, but there was nothing else. The spark that he had hoped for didn’t come, and the hollow emptiness in his chest only deepened.
The ceremony was over. The weight of what he had just done—what he had just agreed to—hung heavy in the air.
This is not what I want.
----------
The ballroom was a sea of silk and jewels, a mixture of laughter and hushed conversation swirling through the air like a melody that grated against her nerves. It was meant to be a celebration, but all y/n could feel was the weight of the night pressing against her chest, suffocating her with each passing second.
She sat at the table, her hands folded delicately in her lap, eyes darting from one person to the next, trying to ignore the awkward silence that hovered between her and her new husband. Azriel sat across from her, his dark gaze scanning the room, occasionally landing on the various important figures in attendance, but y/n couldn’t help but notice how often his eyes strayed toward the back of the room, where a specific female stood with her family.
The sight of her made something sharp twist in y/n's chest, but she quickly pushed it away, focusing on the table in front of her, pretending she couldn’t care less.
It wasn’t that she hated Azriel—it was that she didn’t know him. And that lack of connection, that strange void between them, made the air thick and suffocating. She had never wanted this marriage. She had never wanted to be here in this alien city, surrounded by people who treated her like she was nothing more than a political pawn. But her family had made it clear—this union was for the good of Hybern, for the future of their lands.
And here I am, she thought bitterly, a trophy for a king’s game.
Across the room, Rhysand and her father stood deep in conversation, along with other key players from various courts. The laughter of her mother rang in the air, loud and unrestrained, as if she didn’t have a care in the world, completely oblivious to the fact that her daughter was not only married to a stranger but a stranger she loathed.
Y/n let out a slow breath. The only thing keeping her tethered to this wretched night was the fact that it would soon be over. She’d play her part, show her obedience, and then leave for Hybern with her family. She’d never have to see this place again.
Her gaze flicked back to Azriel, who hadn’t spoken a word to her all night, his attention still fixed on his surroundings. She was sure he hadn’t even noticed her—hell, he probably didn’t care. He didn’t need to care. She was nothing to him.
His gaze flickered again, this time lingering for an uncomfortable moment on that beautiful female, who was laughing softly with a group of friends. Y/n clenched her jaw.
His eyes lingered on her for too long.
She leaned forward, a flash of sarcasm lacing her voice. “Any mistresses I should know about?” she asked, her tone sharp.
Azriel didn’t flinch at her words. He simply raised an eyebrow and slowly turned his head toward her, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever.
“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low and measured, as if the question didn’t even warrant his full attention.
Y/n’s eyes narrowed. “You seem to be spending an awful lot of time looking at her. You wouldn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression, would you?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, though the sting of jealousy in her chest was something she refused to acknowledge.
Azriel’s gaze hardened for a moment, before his lips quirked into a barely-there smirk. “You’re paranoid.”
“Am I?” Y/n’s voice was sweetly venomous. “You’re making it hard not to be. I don’t know—maybe it’s just the way you look at her. A little too... familiar.”
His eyes flicked to her, momentarily narrowing, and for a moment, it almost looked like he was about to respond. But then his gaze slid away, scanning the room once more, seemingly uninterested in the conversation.
Y/n’s chest tightened. She wasn’t sure if the reaction stung more because of how indifferent he was to her or because of how right she had been.
A beat of silence passed between them, the music and laughter from the other guests growing louder in the background. But it was as though they were in a vacuum, isolated in their own bitter little world.
Azriel finally leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “You wouldn’t know anything about what I do or who I look at. But I’m sure you’ll be fine with it. You’ve got bigger things to worry about than what I do.”
The words were soft, but they hit her like a slap.
Y/N’s heart stuttered, but she didn’t let it show. She maintained her icy composure, the mask of indifference firmly in place. Don’t show him it hurts, she reminded herself.
With a quick inhale, she forced a small smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course. You’re right. Why would I care?”
Azriel’s eyes flickered over her face, the hint of satisfaction lingering in his gaze, before he straightened up in his seat, seemingly satisfied with the exchange.
But y/n wasn’t done. She wasn’t about to let him think he’d won. Her voice was light, though the edge of bitterness was unmistakable. “Besides,” she added, glancing toward the door where her mother was speaking to her father, “I’m sure we’ll both find a way to keep ourselves entertained, won’t we?”
Azriel didn’t respond right away. His jaw tightened, and for a fleeting moment, she saw something in his eyes—a flicker of regret or perhaps something else entirely—but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
His attention shifted once more, and she knew he was back to his familiar indifference. Nothing new there, she thought bitterly.
As the night dragged on, the cold silence between them continued to settle over their table, only punctuated by the occasional sound of laughter or polite conversation. Y/n’s thoughts were still spinning, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of distance that loomed between them, both of them trapped in their roles, pretending they didn’t mind the inevitable.
Eventually, the night ended with little fanfare, and the room began to empty, guests trickling out one by one. But for y/n, the bitter taste of the evening lingered.
Her marriage, so far, had been nothing more than a hollow agreement. And nothing Azriel did—or didn’t do—was going to change that.
The house, the one Rhysand had gifted them, loomed large and grand, every corner gleaming with wealth and status. The grand chandelier hanging above them reflected the dim candlelight, casting shadows that felt like a warning. As they stepped inside, Y/N’s eyes scanned the space, noting the pristine perfection of their new home. She was supposed to feel some sense of pride, some excitement. But all she felt was suffocated, like she was drowning in a sea of expectations and lies.
The door clicked shut behind them, the sound so final it made her chest tighten.
Azriel was already walking toward the center of the room, his eyes flicking over the ornate furniture with the same disinterest he’d shown the entire night. The coldness between them, built on a foundation of mutual disdain, settled heavier in the air than anything else.
Y/n lingered in the doorway, her hands clasped together in front of her, unsure of what to do, how to react. Her wedding gown, so carefully crafted, felt like a prison around her. It was beautiful, intricate, but it was also a reminder of how far she had fallen, how deeply trapped she was in this life.
Azriel turned, his back to her now, as if he couldn’t care less.
But then, a sound from him—a low, deliberate sigh—snapped her attention to him.
He finally spoke, his voice colder than the night air outside. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he said, not bothering to look at her, his tone clipped. “This is a political marriage. I don’t like you. You don’t like me. And we both know it. So, don’t try to play any games or pretend that we’re anything more than this.”
Y/n stood frozen, her heart sinking with every word. “You think I don’t know that?” she replied, her voice icy, matching his. “I’m not here because I want to be. But I also don’t need a lecture on the obvious.”
Azriel didn’t flinch at her words, his back still turned to her. “Good. Then we’re clear. This union is for show. We present ourselves as a united, happy couple in public. But behind closed doors, you do whatever you want. I do whatever I want. We keep this civil—nothing more, nothing less.”
Y/n’s chest tightened. She didn’t want to think about him being with someone else, didn’t want to think about the reality of their arrangement. But her anger flickered, and she let it out with a bitter laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? I already knew that much. You don’t have to tell me how little I matter to you. It’s obvious.”
Azriel turned then, his gaze sharp and calculating. The shadows in his eyes deepened, giving him a dangerous look. His jaw tightened, his voice dropping an octave. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page.”
Y/n’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she saw something in them—a flicker of something raw. But it was gone before she could understand it.
“Fine,” she said, her voice low. “I get it. Just… don’t think I’m going to pretend this is anything more than what it is.”
Azriel’s lips twisted into a half-smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect you to. Neither am I.”
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away, the sound of his boots echoing in the silence that followed.
Y/n stayed where she was, watching him walk away, a cold chill creeping over her skin. For a long moment, she didn’t move. She couldn’t. The weight of what had just transpired—the realization of how empty and hollow this marriage was—settled in her chest like a stone.
Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she took in a deep breath. The gown she wore felt suffocating now, the layers of fabric a painful reminder of the reality she had been thrust into.
She had known this wouldn’t be easy. She had known it would be cold and ruthless, but this—this level of isolation—hadn’t really hit her until now.
Azriel had left her standing in the hallway of their new home, alone with her thoughts. The grand mansion around her suddenly felt more like a gilded cage, and the silence of the night pressed down on her with an almost suffocating force.
Her fingers brushed the delicate lace of her gown, and she swallowed the knot in her throat.
This was it. This was her life now.
It wasn’t just a marriage. It was a trap. A game she had no choice but to play, and no matter how much she hated it, she would have to live it.
She turned toward the stairs, her gaze lingering one last time on the darkened hallway ahead.
It was then that the full weight of the situation settled in. She wasn’t just married to a stranger—she was bound to him in a way that no amount of anger could break.
And as she made her way to her room, the realization slowly crushed her under its weight: This would be hell.
---------
It had been a week since the wedding.
One week, and nothing had changed.
There was no warmth between them, no attempts to make this political arrangement bearable. If anything, the silence between them was thicker now, colder. Azriel couldn’t even bring himself to look at her for too long. Every time their paths crossed, he averted his gaze, unwilling to engage.
They hadn’t eaten together once, not a single meal. They were simply two bodies coexisting in the same house, but their lives were on separate tracks. She stayed in her quarters, and he in his. There was no need to speak, no reason to acknowledge each other. They both understood that.
There had been no words about the marriage, about the bond they were supposedly meant to share. No apologies, no pleasantries. Just cold indifference. Azriel hadn’t made the effort to ask how she was doing, and he had no intention of doing so. He didn’t care. He couldn’t.
He wasn’t sure why it bothered him, though. Why, in the back of his mind, something seemed to twist whenever he thought of her. Maybe it was because she was a reminder of everything he loathed—everything that made him feel trapped. But that didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t what he wanted.
It was easier this way. Easier to pretend she didn’t exist.
The days had been long, every minute spent avoiding his new wife. He still couldn't fathom how he'd gotten to this point. How he'd ended up in this forced marriage, trapped in an arrangement he hadn’t chosen. But what could he do? He had no choice. Neither of them did.
As he brooded in the garden, lost in his thoughts, a soft, familiar voice broke through his reverie.
"Azriel," Elain said gently, the sound of her footsteps approaching him.
He didn’t look up at first. He could feel her presence—warm, steady, and completely opposite of everything he felt. But Elain didn’t mind. She never did. She never pushed him for more than he was willing to give.
“I thought you might be out here,” she continued, her voice soft, but there was something in it—concern, maybe, or the hint of something deeper, something Azriel couldn’t quite place.
He finally turned his head, looking up at her. Her brown hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, and her eyes were filled with that ever-present sadness, the one she never let go of. Azriel hated it, hated that she was so full of quiet pain, but it was something he couldn’t fix. Not that he ever had the right to. He wasn’t that person anymore.
“You’re still upset about the wedding?” he asked, his voice more strained than he intended.
Elain sat beside him on the bench, her delicate fingers brushing against his arm in a familiar gesture. There was no hesitation, no need for words between them—they understood each other in a way no one else could. But there was something else in her touch today. A softness that felt almost too intimate, too raw.
“No,” she replied after a pause. Her eyes were sad, but she was trying to smile, trying to hide it. “It’s just... everything. It’s hard to pretend everything’s fine when it’s not.” She glanced at him, her gaze lingering for a moment before she looked away, her hands clasping together in her lap.
Azriel swallowed, the knot in his stomach tightening. He knew exactly what she meant. She had her own burdens to carry, her own emotional chains to bear. But right now, there was something more pressing.
“Have you seen her?” Elain’s voice broke the silence between them, as though she could read his mind.
Azriel’s jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing as he avoided looking at her. "Who?" he asked, his tone clipped. He already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.
“Your wife,” Elain said quietly, the words dripping with the faintest edge of something Azriel couldn’t quite place. A stab of something too deep to decipher.
He felt his heart lurch. His mind drifted to the cold, empty halls of the estate. To her—y/n—always staying in her rooms, always keeping her distance.
"No," he replied flatly, his voice colder than he intended. "I haven't seen her. I don’t... need to."
Elain’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before she leaned in slightly, her voice lowering. “You can’t pretend she doesn’t exist, Azriel. You’re married to her. You need to at least try.”
Azriel turned to face her now, his anger bubbling up, but he bit it back. “I don’t owe her anything, Elain. This marriage is nothing. It’s a political arrangement, nothing more. There’s no pretending it’s something else."
His voice was tight, and he could feel the tension in his chest, the gnawing emptiness that only seemed to grow whenever he thought about her. Y/n. His wife. The one he couldn’t even bring himself to look at for too long.
“You don’t owe her anything, but she’s still your wife,” Elain said softly, her words more resigned than accusing. “And that’s something, whether you like it or not.”
Azriel didn’t respond at first, his gaze turning once again to the flowers in the garden. The peace in the air was deceiving. He hated it. The fact that everything around him seemed so serene while everything inside him was falling apart.
“Why are you here, Elain?” he asked quietly, not unkindly.
She met his gaze, her eyes soft. “Because you need someone, Azriel. And I... I don’t want you to be alone. I never want that for you.”
Her words hung in the air like a heavy weight. Azriel didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure he even deserved her kindness, but it felt good to hear it.
Before he could speak again, a gust of wind blew through the garden, rustling the leaves and carrying the faintest scent of saltwater from the distant ocean. It was a fleeting moment of calm, and then he felt the gentle pressure of Elain’s hand on his arm once more, reminding him that she was still there, still offering something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
He could have spoken. He could have said that instead of y/n, it should have been Elain who walked down the aisle towards him. How she is the only one whom he will ever feel this way for. But for some reason, there was a tiny voice in his mind that just didn't allow him to.
So, instead of responding, he remained silent, lost in the quiet chaos of his thoughts. The flowers bloomed around him, and yet everything felt frozen, as if even the seasons were trapped in time. Just like him.
--------
Y/n sat by the window, staring out at the vast expanse of the estate's gardens below. The flowers swayed gently in the wind, their colors a sharp contrast to the grayness that had settled over her heart. She wasn’t sure how many days it had been since the wedding, but each one felt the same. Empty. Unchanging.
Her fingers traced the edge of the windowsill, the cool stone grounding her as she tried to steady herself. She had been given this life, this title, this... marriage. But it had never been what she expected.
The sounds of the estate—footsteps in the halls, distant voices, the occasional laughter—were muffled to her ears. Everything felt distant, as though she were watching her life from behind a thick pane of glass. She had tried to reach out, tried to break the silence with Azriel, but he never acknowledged her, never let her in. They had been strangers before the wedding, and now... now, she didn’t even know what to call their relationship.
Y/n didn’t know how much longer she could pretend. She wasn’t just some political pawn. She had her own life, her own dreams before this. But those felt like a distant memory now, swallowed up by the reality of her new world.
She leaned her forehead against the cold glass, watching the sun set slowly over the horizon. The light dimmed, the world outside growing darker with every passing second. It felt... fitting.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.
Y/n didn't move at first. She didn’t need to answer. She already knew who it was. They’d all come to check on her once or twice, as if her silence was something to be fixed. But she wasn’t broken.
Another knock, more insistent this time, pulled her from her reverie. With a resigned sigh, she stood and crossed the room, opening the door just wide enough to see the person standing on the other side.
It was Nesta.
She stood there, arms crossed, her gaze sharp and unreadable. The tension in the air was thick, but it wasn’t just from Nesta’s presence. It was the weight of the expectations—expectations that Y/n didn’t care to meet. Not anymore.
"I thought I'd find you here," Nesta said, her tone a little colder than Y/n expected, though there was a sharpness to it that was unmistakable. She didn’t wait for an invitation before stepping inside.
Y/n barely moved as Nesta brushed past her and into the room. She closed the door quietly behind them, leaning against it as her eyes studied the woman before her.
"I’m not locked away," Y/n said flatly, her voice distant, though the words felt empty as soon as they left her mouth. She wasn’t lying, but at the same time, she wasn’t being entirely truthful. She was locked away—locked away by her own choices, by the distance that had grown between her and everything else in this house. Including Azriel.
Nesta didn’t bother with pleasantries. "Cassian sent me," she said bluntly. "He’s concerned because he hasn’t seen you leave this room in days. We barely see your face around here. You and that new husband of yours seem to be avoiding our gatherings."
Y/n’s eyes flickered to the floor, the words landing with a dull thud. She wasn’t sure what she expected—maybe a little more empathy, or at least a hint of warmth. But this was Nesta. Cold, direct, and unyielding. Just like everyone else in this court.
"Tell Cassian I’m fine," Y/n replied, her voice losing even more of its life with each passing second. "I’m just... adjusting."
"Adjusting?" Nesta scoffed, her tone turning more biting. "You’re barely even talking to anyone. It’s been a week since the wedding, and you’ve barely left this room." She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied Y/n’s face. "You’re not adjusting. You’re hiding."
Y/n didn’t flinch at Nesta’s words. She had heard it before, from Azriel and from the rest of the family. They couldn’t understand. They wouldn’t understand. How could they? They were all in different worlds, living different lives.
"I’m not hiding," Y/n repeated, her voice taking on a sharp edge. "I just don’t see the point in pretending things are fine when they aren’t."
Nesta seemed to take a moment before responding. The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. "You’re right. Things aren’t fine. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay stuck in this... this misery. Azriel’s not going to change overnight. None of us expect that from him. But you can change. You can stop hiding."
Y/n’s eyes flicked to the ground, her jaw tight, and her heart twisted in a way she didn’t want to examine. "What do you want me to do? Go back to the life I had before? Pretend everything’s fine? Pretend I’m not married to a man who won’t even look at me?"
Nesta didn’t flinch at her words. Instead, she simply crossed her arms and regarded her with a steady gaze. "No. I’m not asking you to pretend. But hiding away like this won’t fix anything, y/n. Cassian wants you to stop isolating yourself. I think you need it, too."
Y/n’s gaze flickered over to Nesta, her expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. "You don’t understand," she muttered.
Nesta turned on her heel to leave, but before she did, she spoke again. "Don’t hide forever, y/n. You might not be able to change everything, but you can change this."
And with that, she was gone, leaving Y/n alone in the stillness of the room once more.
The silence closed in again, more suffocating than before. Y/n leaned her back against the door, her thoughts spiraling as the weight of Nesta’s words sank in. Maybe she was hiding. Maybe she was running from the life she had been given. But what choice did she have? What else was there for her in this house, in this life?
As she stood there, the darkness outside pressing in on the walls of the room, she knew Nesta was right about one thing—she couldn’t keep disappearing. But that didn’t mean she had any idea of how to stop.
-------
Two weeks into this miserable excuse of a marriage, and Azriel was still no closer to understanding how to make it work. The silence between him and y/n was deafening. Every word he tried to say felt like it would only widen the gap between them, and each glance he shot her way was met with nothing but cold indifference. She kept her distance, and he made sure to do the same.
Yet, in the quiet moments when he lay awake at night, his mind wandered to thoughts he couldn’t control. Thoughts of Elain. Of his real bond, the one that mattered. He had promised himself that he’d never let anything or anyone get in the way of that, especially not a woman he barely knew, one he had been forced into this union with.
But still... there were moments when something stirred in him, a fleeting feeling, a hesitation he could never quite place.
As he passed the dining hall, he heard the soft clink of silverware against china. His gaze flicked toward the open door, and he froze when he saw her. Y/n. Sitting at the table, alone.
It was always like this now. Y/n had taken to eating alone, isolating herself more and more. It wasn’t the kind of thing Azriel was used to—seeing anyone, especially someone he was bound to, so entirely separate from the rest of the world. But in that moment, as she sat there in solitude, his irritation boiled over.
She didn’t even look up when he entered the room, as if she had known he’d be here. Her gaze remained fixed on the food in front of her, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows on her features. She might as well have been a ghost in the room.
"Is this how it’s going to be?" he asked, his voice sharp, his patience wearing thin.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, Azriel wondered if she even cared enough to acknowledge him. Finally, her eyes slid up to meet his, the coldness in them matching his own.
"Is what how it’s going to be?" she asked, her tone just as frosty, but there was a sharpness to it that was impossible to ignore.
Azriel let out a frustrated sigh, his wings twitching behind him as he stepped further into the room. "You’re avoiding everyone. I mean, I did say we don't need to acknowledge each other but not my fucking family too! You don’t even bother to show up for dinner with the others. What is this, Y/n? Is this some form of... rebellion?" His words were laced with more anger than he had intended, but at this point, he wasn’t sure if it was the silence, the tension, or something deeper gnawing at him.
She picked up her glass of wine and took a slow sip, as though he hadn’t even spoken. "Maybe I just enjoy my own company more than yours," she said dryly, setting the glass down without taking her eyes off him.
The words stung, though Azriel would never admit it. His jaw tightened, but for some reason, he didn’t leave. He didn’t turn away like he normally would. Something about the solitude in the room, the quiet, was oddly compelling. He should walk away. Go back to his responsibilities. Back to Elain.
But he didn’t.
"Fine," he muttered, pulling out a chair across from her. "I’ll stay for dinner. Don’t get used to it."
Y/n didn’t seem to care either way. She simply resumed cutting her food, the silence between them once again stretching thick and heavy.
As they ate, the conversation remained stiff at first, barely anything beyond a few biting remarks and cold stares. Azriel kept his focus on his plate, only offering brief glances at y/n. Her presence, though distant, seemed to wrap itself around him in ways he couldn’t escape.
"You know," she said, breaking the silence at last, "you don’t have to stay, Azriel. It’s not like you care to be here."
The words were blunt, but there was a certain weariness behind them that made Azriel pause. He looked up sharply, ready to snap back, but found something different in her eyes. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t contempt. It was... exhaustion.
"What’s your point?" he asked, his voice low, though his anger was fading, replaced by something else—something he didn’t want to examine.
Her gaze softened for just a moment. "You’re here because you feel obligated. We both know it. So why don’t we just call it what it is and stop pretending?"
Azriel’s stomach twisted. He looked away, unwilling to confront the raw truth she was offering. "I’m not pretending," he bit out. "I don’t have time for games."
"No," she agreed, her tone quiet but cutting. "You don’t. Neither of us do."
The conversation slipped into an uneasy silence, one that felt far less hostile than the ones before. They both ate in a strange truce, their proximity and shared space creating a tension that neither of them knew how to deal with.
Azriel’s mind drifted—back to Elain. To the bond he shared with her, the one that was real. Yet, even as the thought settled in, a small, almost imperceptible crack appeared in his carefully constructed wall. Y/n’s presence, her voice, even her sharpness had gotten under his skin in a way he didn’t want to admit.
And just as quickly as it had softened, the moment was over.
"Enough," Azriel said, standing up abruptly and pushing his chair back. "This was a mistake."
Y/n didn’t even flinch, her eyes already closed as if she’d anticipated his reaction. "Yes. It was."
Azriel’s wings twitched as he moved to leave the room, but as he passed the door, he hesitated. He couldn’t quite explain why, but the brief, fragile moment they’d shared had lodged itself in his mind, and for the first time in weeks, his thoughts of Elain became... blurred.
It wasn’t enough to change anything. But it was something.
-------
Y/n stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection as she adjusted the neckline of the dress. Three weeks into this marriage, and it still felt like she was wearing someone else’s life. The faint scent of lavender in the room did nothing to calm her racing thoughts.
She hated this. Hated the constant pretending. Hated that she was walking into Rhysand and Feyre’s home tonight as though everything was fine, as though she was part of their world. She was no more than a pawn in a game she hadn’t signed up for. A foreigner trapped in a world she didn't understand.
The Hybern enemies were now her supposed allies. Her chest tightened at the thought. How hilarious. How utterly fucking ridiculous.
Y/n smoothed the fabric down, unable to shake the weight of the mask she had to wear for the evening. Her life—her past—felt like a distant memory now. She was a stranger in her own skin, wearing the title of wife with no meaning behind it. Azriel, the man she was wed to, never looked at her. Never spoke to her unless absolutely necessary.
Her eyes flickered to the door. She didn’t want to be here, but it was too late to back out now.
The carriage ride to Rhysand and Feyre’s estate had been silent, save for the distant sound of the horses’ hooves and the occasional soft rustling of the wind. Azriel had been beside her, of course, but his presence was as cold as the space between them. Neither of them had spoken, and she had been more than content with that.
Apparently he thought it would be better to go this way rather than to fly her in his arms because that was just too....intimate. And she agreed.
As they entered Rhysand’s home, she couldn’t help but notice how alive it was. Laughter echoed through the halls, the warmth of family and friendship surrounding her. Yet, y/n felt none of that warmth. She felt like an outsider, like a ghost drifting through a place she didn’t belong.
The table was set, and everyone was already seated, talking and laughing. The moment she entered the room, their conversation quieted, but y/n barely noticed. Rhysand gave her a welcoming nod, and Feyre offered a smile, but it felt like nothing more than a formality.
Azriel pulled out the chair beside her, but didn’t speak. He sat down with his usual air of detachment, his eyes already flickering to the female who was named Elain, who was seated across from him. She looked at him with such warmth, her eyes soft, her smile effortless. It made Y/n’s stomach churn.
They were so familiar with each other. So easy in their connection. Elain reached across the table to adjust Azriel’s plate, her fingers brushing his hand just for a second. Y/n’s breath caught in her throat, but she quickly swallowed the surge of anger rising within her.
Focus, she told herself, trying to breathe through it.
They were happy. They had every right to be happy. She wasn’t a part of this, not really. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.
But it stung, nonetheless. She was his wife. Given, in name only but still.
The conversation flowed around her, but y/n found it hard to participate. Every word, every shared laugh, every glance exchanged between Azriel and Elain felt like a jab in her chest. Her stomach twisted as they continued to speak in their familiar way, each moment a reminder that she was the outsider.
She pushed her food around her plate, not really hungry, but unable to force herself to eat. She couldn’t stomach the thought of food while her thoughts spiraled. Every laugh, every smile from the others felt like a reminder of how alone she was in this room. She had nothing in common with any of them. And as for Azriel...
Azriel.
He barely acknowledged her. Not that she expected him to. But every time he spoke to Elain, it was as if y/n didn’t even exist. He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak to her, as if she was just another piece of furniture in the room.
It was almost too much to bear.
The moment came when Elain reached over to touch Azriel’s arm, laughing at something he said, her fingers grazing his skin in a way that made y/n’s heart ache.
Y/n stood up abruptly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. The sudden movement caught everyone’s attention, but Y/n didn’t care. She wasn’t going to sit there anymore, pretending to be part of this farce. She had enough.
"Excuse me," she muttered, her voice sharp, betraying none of the hurt she was feeling. She wasn’t going to let them see it. Not when they didn’t care, when Azriel didn’t care.
Azriel’s eyes flickered up to her, confusion crossing his features for a moment before he quickly masked it with indifference. He said nothing. None of them did. They just watched her leave the table.
Y/n walked out of the dining room, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know where she was going, but she had to get out. She needed air. She needed to breathe.
The cool night air hit her as she stepped into the hall, the silence of the house almost suffocating. She needed to leave. Now.
She turned the corner, her breath catching in her throat.
“Y/n,” came a voice from behind her.
It was Cassian.
He stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable.
“Are you alright?” he asked, concern in his voice, though he kept a safe distance.
Y/n stiffened, her hands clenched at her sides.
“I just need to go home,” she said, her voice cold. “Send me home.”
Cassian hesitated for a moment, looking past her toward the others in the dining room. Then he nodded, walking toward her.
“Alright,” he said, his tone gentler than she expected. “I’ll take you back.”
Y/n didn’t speak as they left the house, the silence between them heavy. All she wanted was to be away from them, away from the family she would never belong to.
When they reached the gates, Cassian turned to her. “You don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to isolate yourself.”
Y/n stiffened, not trusting herself to respond.
“Just... think about it,” Cassian said quietly, before walking away.
Y/n watched him go, her heart still heavy with the unspoken words between them. She turned back toward the house, feeling the coldness of the night settle in her bones.
Inside, Azriel would remain with his family. With Elain.
And she would be alone. Again.
---------
Azriel paced the length of Rhysand’s study, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out the window. Four weeks. Four fucking weeks since the wedding, and nothing had changed. The silence between him and Y/n had only deepened. They were as distant as two strangers, trapped in a marriage neither of them had asked for.
But what else could he do? He had tried. He’d tried to give her space, tried to keep his distance, tried to ignore the way his mind kept drifting back to her. To the way she looked when she walked into a room, or how she had stood up and left the dinner table that night. But none of it mattered. She hated him. And he had every reason to hate her too. She was a foreigner in his world, someone who didn’t belong here.
“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice low as he turned to face his brother, who was lounging behind his desk, eyes gleaming with that trademark amusement.
Rhys raised an eyebrow, knowing immediately where this was going. “What is it now? Another request for a solo mission?”
Azriel gritted his teeth, frustration clawing at his chest. He couldn’t do it anymore—being stuck in that house with her. Being stuck with the constant reminder that he was married to someone he didn’t even know. And it wasn’t like he was allowed to go out and do his usual work without being burdened by her presence.
“I need a mission, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, pacing again. “I can’t stay there with her. I can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine. Like we’re not just two people forced into this. I’m asking you to send me away. Please.”
Rhysand chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair as he watched Azriel’s tense movements. “You sure? Because the last time I saw the two of you together, you looked anything but hateful.”
Azriel froze mid-step, his heart skipping a beat. The words hit him like a punch, knocking the wind out of him. He hadn’t expected Rhys to say that. He’d kept his distance, kept his eyes off her as much as possible, but he couldn’t shake the truth in his brother’s words. He hadn’t seen the way he had looked at her—hadn’t noticed the way she had glanced at him when she thought no one was watching. They were still strangers, but those brief moments... they had felt different.
Azriel scowled, shaking his head to rid himself of the thoughts swirling in his mind. “You’re wrong. There’s nothing between us. I don’t even see her as my wife. I don’t want anything to do with her.”
Rhys’s gaze softened, but there was still a glimmer of humor behind his eyes. “You keep saying that, but the way I see it, you’re lying to yourself. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You can’t even hide it from me, Az. I know you.”
Azriel growled under his breath, but his brother’s words were like tiny shards of ice, piercing through the walls he’d spent years building around his heart. He couldn’t allow himself to feel. He couldn’t let himself think that maybe, just maybe, Rhys was right.
“You’re out of your mind,” Azriel muttered, taking a step back. “I don’t feel anything for her. I’m just stuck in this mess because you insisted on this ridiculous marriage.”
Rhys leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk. His voice was quieter now, but there was a sharpness to it that made Azriel pause. “You can lie to me all you want, but you can’t lie to yourself, Azriel. I know what I saw. And I’m telling you this because you’re my brother. Whatever this is between you two, it’s not going away just because you pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Azriel clenched his fists, his body tight with anger. “I don’t need your advice, Rhys.”
Rhys’s lips quirked up, but there was something more sincere in his gaze now. “I’m not giving advice. I’m telling you what I see. You’ve got two choices: face whatever it is you’re feeling, or keep running from it. But running won’t make it go away.”
Azriel’s mind raced, and he wanted to scream at Rhys, tell him to stop reading him like an open book, but he couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t even look Rhys in the eye for fear that his brother would see through all of his lies.
Instead, he let out a long breath, pushing past the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. “So what do you want me to do?”
Rhys’s expression was unreadable as he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together. “You’re going to stay with your wife, Azriel. I’m not sending you away on some mission. You need to work this out. You need to talk to her. But I know you won’t, so I’ll tell you this: You’re not as alone as you think you are. But you’ve got to stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s not.”
Azriel’s throat tightened at the implication. He didn’t want to hear this. Didn’t want to acknowledge that maybe, just maybe, Rhys was right.
“Fine,” Azriel spat, turning toward the door. “I’ll stay. But don’t expect me to like it.”
As his hand gripped the door handle, Rhys’s voice stopped him. “Az,” he said quietly. “Attraction isn’t always easy. But pretending it doesn’t exist? That’s even harder.”
Azriel stood there, frozen, the words echoing in his mind like a haunting whisper. Slowly, he turned to face his brother. “I’m not pretending. I don’t feel anything for her.”
Rhys’s gaze softened, but there was a glint of something that made Azriel’s heart pound. “We both know that’s not true. But it’s your choice, Azriel. I’m just telling you—don’t waste the time you’ve got.”
The weight of Rhys’s words lingered long after he had left the study. Azriel’s mind spun, and for the first time in a long while, his walls cracked just enough for doubt to seep through.
------------
The soft clink of porcelain against porcelain was the only sound filling the quiet, drawing Y/n’s gaze to the cup in front of her. Feyre had insisted she join her for tea—something about “breaking the ice” between them, as if it were that simple. But Y/n knew it was just another attempt to draw her into the circle, to make her feel like she belonged in their world. She didn’t. And she never would.
Y/n’s fingers tightened around the teacup, her knuckles going white as she stared at the swirling liquid, her mind a million miles away. The air in the room was thick with forced civility, and y/n hated it. The delicate sitting room with its cushioned chairs and soft lighting made her skin crawl. It was all a facade. Pretend. She didn’t belong here, and they knew it. Feyre knew it.
“Y/n,” Feyre said, breaking the silence, her voice warm, but still laced with that underlying curiosity. “I know this might not be the easiest thing for you... but I want you to feel at home here, even if just for a little while.”
Y/n’s lips twitched into something that might’ve been mistaken for a smile if one didn’t pay close attention to the coldness in her eyes. “At home?” she repeated flatly, her voice laced with distaste. “That’s funny. I don’t think this house will ever feel like home to me.”
Feyre didn't react to the bite in her tone, her expression steady and patient, as if she were used to it by now. “You’re Azriel’s wife now,” Feyre said, more matter-of-fact than anything else. “You’re part of this family, whether you want to be or not.”
Y/n’s gaze sharpened as she finally looked up, meeting Feyre’s eyes across the table. She let the words hang in the air for a moment, the weight of them settling in her chest. Part of this family. The irony tasted bitter on her tongue. A family she had no stake in. A family she would never be a part of. Not really. She could play the part, sit here, sip tea, and pretend for as long as she needed to, but that didn’t mean she would ever truly be one of them.
“Right,” she muttered, trying to rein in the simmering frustration that was starting to bubble up. “Azriel’s wife.” She forced the words out as if they didn’t sting every time she said them.
Feyre didn’t seem to pick up on the bitterness in Y/n’s tone, or maybe she just didn’t care. She leaned back in her chair, eyes still on Y/n, her expression more thoughtful now.
“How have you been adjusting to everything?” Feyre asked, her voice gentle. It almost sounded like a question of genuine concern, though Y/n knew better. Feyre wasn’t asking to truly understand; she was asking because she had to.
“Fine,” Y/n replied, her voice cold and clipped. “It’s only been a month, after all.”
Feyre nodded, her eyes flickering to the side for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. “I understand that it’s not easy. I know Azriel can be… difficult. But he’s a good person, Y/n. He’s been through a lot.”
Y/n’s eyes narrowed, a small laugh escaping her lips. “Good person?” she repeated, her voice taking on a mocking edge. “That’s one way to put it.”
Feyre didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned forward slightly, her tone shifting, becoming more serious. “I know this whole thing isn’t what you expected. And I can’t pretend to understand what you’re feeling. But I’ve seen the way you look at Azriel. I know it’s hard to… accept everything right now. But he’s not the enemy.”
Y/n’s eyes flicked up sharply, but before she could reply, Feyre continued, her words flowing like water, too fast to interrupt.
“And I know you don’t want to hear this,” Feyre said softly, almost regretfully, “but Elain—Azriel and Elain—there’s something between them. Even now. They can't stay away from one another, no matter what.”
Y/n froze. The words hit her like a physical blow, and for a moment, her vision blurred as a wave of something unrecognizable washed over her—resentment, jealousy, pain? She didn’t know, but it made her stomach twist. She quickly masked it, but Feyre had already seen the flicker in her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Feyre added, her voice sincere but firm. “I know you’re married to him, but that’s the truth. Elain has her mate, and Azriel is now married to you, but… there’s something between them, something deeper than either of them can deny.”
Y/n’s grip tightened on her teacup, and she forced her voice to remain steady, even though everything inside her was screaming. “And what does that have to do with me?” she asked, her words clipped, her tone biting.
Feyre didn’t back down. “It has everything to do with you, Y/n. Whether you like it or not, this situation—this marriage—was never just about the two of you. Elain is a part of Azriel’s life, and you’re caught in the middle of it. I’m sorry.” Her words were almost too soft, too apologetic, and it made Y/n want to lash out.
Y/n stood abruptly, pushing her chair back with a screech that echoed through the room. “I don’t need your pity, Feyre,” she spat, her heart racing. “I never did.”
She didn’t give Feyre a chance to respond. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, the sound of Feyre’s voice calling after her—soft, apologetic, and full of regret—fading as she made her way down the hall.
She didn’t care.
Not about them. Not about Elain and Azriel. Not about Feyre or any of it.
But deep down, she couldn’t shake the nagging thought that something had shifted in her since that conversation. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she felt it, burning like a brand beneath her skin.
———-
Y/n sat alone in their shared home, the silence of the space pressing down on her like a weight she could barely lift. The walls seemed to close in as she glanced at the clock. Another evening without Azriel. Another day where the distance between them only seemed to grow.
It had been weeks, two months now, since the wedding—an event she had reluctantly accepted but had done nothing to erase the bitterness in her heart. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t let her emotions get the best of her, that she would remain indifferent. After all, this wasn’t a marriage born of love, and that was clear from the start.
But the constant tension in the house, the subtle glances between Azriel and Elain whenever they were in the same room, was enough to make her stomach churn with something that wasn’t hatred—something else, something more destructive.
She could never escape it. They were everywhere. Azriel with Elain. Elain with Azriel. It was like the universe kept reminding her of the one thing she couldn’t control.
With a sharp exhale, Y/n threw herself onto the couch, eyes closing in frustration. She could hear them in the hallway just outside. Their soft laughter, their quiet conversations.
Her hands clenched at her sides.
No. No more.
She stood, her heartbeat quickening as she made her way down the hall. She couldn’t keep pretending. Not anymore.
Azriel stood at the door to the study, his posture relaxed, leaning slightly against the doorframe as Elain spoke softly to him. They were close—too close. The sight of them made Y/n’s skin burn.
She took a step forward, and they both fell silent. Azriel’s eyes shifted to her, but he didn’t look surprised. He never did.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, Azriel,” Y/n’s voice cut through the silence, the coldness of her tone making the words sharper than she intended. “I know exactly what’s going on here.”
Azriel’s eyes hardened, a warning flashing in them, but Y/n didn’t care. She had spent the last month walking on eggshells, suppressing the growing anger that had been building inside her. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.
“You’re in love with her,” Y/n spat, her words filled with venom. “I don’t know why I even bother. All this time pretending like we’re somehow in this together. But you can’t even look at me without looking at her too.”
Elain shifted uncomfortably, but it was Azriel who spoke first. His voice was tight with restraint. “Y/n, not now.”
“Not now?” Y/n repeated, her voice rising. “I’m tired of pretending that you and I are some happy little couple when all you do is look at her like she’s the only person in this world. How stupid do you think I am? I’m not blind, Azriel. It’s pathetic.”
Azriel’s expression darkened, but he didn’t move. “That’s enough.”
“No, it’s not enough,” Y/n snapped, her eyes flashing with anger. “I’m not your fucking fool. You’re married to me, and you can’t even act like it. You can’t even look at me without thinking of her.”
There was a dangerous quiet in the air now. Azriel’s jaw clenched as he took a step toward her, his voice cold. “Watch your words, Y/n. I didn’t marry you because I wanted to. You think I don’t see the way you look at me? Don’t pretend like you’re innocent in all of this. We’re both stuck in this arrangement. Don’t make it more than it is.”
Y/n’s heart pounded in her chest. “I’m stuck in this arrangement?” she echoed, incredulity lacing her voice. “I never wanted this! You’re the one who’s in love with her, Azriel. I’m just a placeholder. You think I don’t see it? The way you and Elain look at each other when you think no one’s watching?”
“Stop it,” Azriel growled, his tone low and dangerous.
But Y/n didn’t stop. She had no intention of stopping now. All the feelings she had been burying, all the resentment and jealousy, came pouring out in a surge of anger she could no longer control. “It’s obvious, Azriel.You wish she was your mate. You’re just waiting for some godforsaken miracle to undo this marriage, and the whole time I’m stuck with you—with someone who doesn’t even want me.”
The words hung in the air like a spell, suffocating her, but she didn’t care. It was the truth, and for the first time, she didn’t bother pretending otherwise.
For a moment, there was only silence. Elain had stepped back, her eyes wide, but Azriel stood frozen in place, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and something unreadable.
Then he spoke, his voice low, edged with something close to fury. “I never asked for this either. Don’t act like you’re the only one suffering through it.”
Y/n’s chest heaved as she swallowed back the rising tide of emotions threatening to overtake her. “You think this is hard for you? You don’t even know what this feels like. I don’t care about the Hybern blood in me. I don’t care about your hatred for it. But I’m not stupid. And I’m done.”
Azriel opened his mouth to speak, but Y/n was already turning on her heel, storming out of the room before he could say anything. Her footsteps echoed in the hall, the weight of the argument heavy in the air.
As she slammed the door behind her, she leaned against it, her breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps.
Her heart was pounding, a mixture of fury and hurt boiling inside her. She had just exposed everything—the truth she had been holding in for so long. And she didn’t know if she felt better or worse for it.
The next day, Y/n didn’t care. At least, that’s what she kept telling herself. The argument with Azriel had been explosive, and she hadn’t bothered to check on him since. He was probably off somewhere with Elain, as usual, ignoring her existence in favor of someone who truly mattered to him.
And that was fine. She wasn’t about to play the part of the desperate, insecure wife. She didn’t care what he did, who he was with, or what he had to say. The venom in her words from last night still echoed in her mind, but she refused to acknowledge the small, gnawing feeling in her chest that told her maybe—just maybe—she had gone too far.
But no, she wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to let herself soften for him. She’d learned a long time ago that there was nothing worth caring about in this world. So why bother?
The morning had been cold, and she had spent most of it in her room, staring out the window, watching the city go about its business below. Her thoughts had drifted, as they often did these days, from one dark corner of her mind to another. She couldn’t afford to linger on Azriel or Elain. She couldn’t afford to care about anything.
But as she pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders and left the house for a walk—just to clear her head—the air felt heavier than usual. There was something about the silence that seemed too still, too quiet.
She passed through the marketplace, her boots clicking on the cobblestones, ignoring the looks from the locals. The city was full of people, but in this moment, Y/n felt more alone than ever. She could feel the weight of the fight from last night still hovering over her, but it was easier to let it sit in the back of her mind while she focused on the mundane tasks of everyday life.
That was, until a shadow fell across her path.
Before she could even register what was happening, something hard pressed against her side, a sharp pain searing through her ribs. Her instincts screamed at her to fight, but it was too late. She barely had time to react before she was pulled into an alley, her body shoved roughly against the stone wall. The smell of sweat, damp earth, and something sour filled her nostrils, and she choked on the sudden rush of fear that flooded her veins.
Her heart pounded as she struggled, but the grip on her arms tightened. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she fought against the strong hands holding her still. She twisted, trying to break free, but the attackers were swift—too swift.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed through gritted teeth, her heart racing with adrenaline. But the men—two of them—said nothing. One of them simply pressed a cloth to her mouth, and before she could react, darkness closed in.
The world around her spun, and everything went black.
When Y/n came to, the first thing she noticed was the cold, damp stone beneath her. She was lying flat on her back, and the air smelled stale, like a forgotten cellar. Her head throbbed, and a dull ache spread across her temples. She blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings, but the flickering light from a torch just ahead didn’t do much to illuminate the small, cramped room.
Panic surged through her as she sat up, her hands immediately reaching for her body, checking for any weapons. There were none. Her throat felt dry, and her mind raced with questions.
Where was she?
Why had they taken her?
And who were these people?
A soft clink of metal on stone made her pause. She looked up, eyes narrowing as she saw a shadow moving in the doorway of the room. It was hard to make out much in the dim light, but she could feel the eyes on her. The presence of someone… watching.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a voice said, smooth and cold, like it was used to power. A woman stepped into view, her features shadowed but unmistakably cruel. “You didn’t think you could just walk through our lands, did you?”
Y/n didn’t respond, her chest tight with the remnants of fear. She had been captured—no, taken—by people who didn’t want a Hybern bloodline anywhere near their territory. How ironic. They probably thought they were doing the world a favor, ridding the land of her existence.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, her eyes glinting with anger. “I have nothing to do with Hybern,” she spat, her voice hoarse from the struggle earlier.
The woman smiled coldly, circling around Y/n like a predator eyeing its prey. “You’re still part of that bloodline. And that makes you dangerous.”
Y/n glared at her, unwilling to let her see the fear she felt inside. “You’ll regret this.”
The woman laughed. “Maybe. But first, we have to make sure you’re… disappeared.”
Y/n’s heart skipped a beat. She knew what that meant. But she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
----------
Azriel sat beside Elain, his hand resting on her back as she sobbed quietly into his chest. He tried to focus on her, on the comfort he had been offering her over the past few days, but it was difficult. His mind kept drifting back to Y/n—her words from yesterday, the way she had spat venom at him like it was second nature.
He could still hear the bite in her voice, the sting of every insult, every accusation. “I know we’re not going to acknowledge each other, but this is too much. You’re clearly in love with Elain.”
“I’m sorry, Elain,” he murmured again, but his voice lacked conviction. He was trying to soothe her, to ease the hurt between them, but the more he tried, the more he realized something was slipping through his fingers.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Y/n since their argument. Her words had cut him deeper than he wanted to admit, and no matter how many times he tried to push the thoughts away, they kept coming back.
Azriel shook his head, trying to focus on Elain, trying to push the thoughts of Y/n away. He didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but the truth was undeniable. The space between him and Elain had begun to feel… too much.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he said softly, his hand still resting on Elain’s back as she wept in his arms. But even as the words left his mouth, he realized they didn’t feel true—not in the way they used to. He wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for his actions toward Elain or for his lack of real feeling.
Elain’s crying began to quiet, her sobs fading as she pulled back, looking up at him through tear-soaked lashes. “Azriel, please... don’t be angry at me.”
“I’m not angry with you,” he said, though the words felt hollow in his chest.
He wasn’t angry with Elain, but he was angry with himself. Angry for not knowing where his feelings lay, angry for the distance he felt between them now, and for the strange emptiness he couldn’t fill.
But it wasn’t just Elain’s tears that had him unsettled. It was Y/n’s absence. It was the sharpness of their argument and the way her eyes had looked at him—like she saw through him, saw the cracks in his walls.
Suddenly, there was a loud crash at the door, and Cassian’s voice broke through the thick air.
“Azriel, we have a problem.”
Azriel’s head snapped up, his body instantly coiling in tension as Cassian’s words hit him like a jolt of ice water. He barely registered Elain’s shocked gasp or her hands gripping his arms.
“Y/n… she’s been taken.”
The words sliced through him, the shock of it freezing him in place for a moment. But the second the panic set in, his instincts took over. He surged to his feet, wings snapping out in a violent, protective motion. His heart pounded, and for a moment, he couldn’t even process what was happening.
He looked down at Elain, but the sight of her trembling face barely registered. His mind was on one thing and one thing only now—Y/n. The feeling of her absence, the way her anger had consumed him just the day before, now transforming into something far more urgent.
“Where is my wife?” he demanded, his voice dark and low, as though some primal part of him had snapped into place.
Cassian, too, was already moving toward the door, but his expression was grim. “We don’t know. We’re trying to track her, but—”
“I don’t care!” Azriel shouted, his wings flaring with rage. “I’m not letting anyone take her. I’ll burn the world to the ground if I have to.”
He didn’t wait for Cassian’s response. Without another glance at Elain, Azriel turned on his heel and shot out the door, his mind fixated entirely on Y/n.
The world around him faded, and all that remained was the overwhelming need to find her. He could feel it, deep inside—a pull stronger than any duty, any obligation to Elain.
Y/n had been taken, and he wasn’t going to stop until she was back in his arms.
-----------
Y/n’s head ached. The dull throb behind her eyes was only amplified by the cold stone walls surrounding her, the darkness pressing in on every side. She didn’t know how long it had been since they’d taken her—time felt like it was slipping away in the disorienting silence, the hours blurring into one another as the isolation began to eat away at her.
She had been caught. Captured by those who feared her connection to Hybern, to everything that had once been her bloodline. She had known the risks when she left her home, when she had left Azriel’s side. But that didn’t make it easier.
Her thoughts flickered to him—Azriel. The argument from the night before still stung like fresh wounds. She didn’t need to think about him, didn’t want to, but the ache in her chest had nothing to do with the physical restraints keeping her in place.
She felt nothing for him, right? He was married to Elain. He had his duty.
So why, then, did her stomach twist at the thought of him being with her?
She hated this feeling—the weakness, the vulnerability. All of it felt like a damn trap.
"Enough," she whispered harshly to herself, shaking her head. "Focus, Y/n."
The sounds of her captors outside the cell grated on her nerves, their laughter a mockery of her situation. She had to get out. She couldn’t be here, locked away like some caged animal. She was stronger than this. She had to remind herself of that, had to remember who she was. A fighter. Not some fragile creature waiting to be saved.
But even as she steeled herself for whatever was coming next, a part of her—a deep, raw part of her—felt that familiar, bitter feeling. The one that had started as anger and had transformed into something else entirely when she realized just how much it had all meant.
Azriel.
She had fought for control of her emotions, forcing herself to believe that nothing about their situation would ever change, that it was a marriage out of duty and hatred, but those words—the ones she’d thrown at him, the ones that cut her deep—had twisted something inside of her.
You’re clearly in love with Elain.
She hated that it was true.
She clenched her fists, the cold iron biting into her skin. I hate him. The words were as much of a command as a declaration, but the heaviness in her chest betrayed them.
She heard footsteps approaching, the sound of keys rattling as they unlocked her cell. A cold breeze swept in, and the faintest trace of her captors' low murmurs made her mind race. She wouldn’t be caught off guard again.
But it was hard to ignore the way her pulse spiked when she thought of what lay ahead, of the uncertainty, of whether she would ever see Azriel again.
She didn’t know what she expected from him—whether he would even care enough to search for her, or if he would return to Elain, who was probably sitting in his arms right now, not knowing that Y/n had been taken.
"Get up," a voice barked from the doorway, dragging her from her spiraling thoughts.
Y/n’s gaze snapped to the figure in the shadows, her heart racing, but she forced herself to remain still. She wasn’t going to break—she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
The figure stepped closer, and she recognized the glint of the knife at his waist. “You’re coming with me.”
Y/n narrowed her eyes, refusing to show any sign of fear. She had learned long ago not to let anyone see her weakness. “Where are you taking me?”
“Does it matter?” He sneered, reaching for her arm to yank her to her feet.
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she stood on her own, using every ounce of her will to push the emotions threatening to overwhelm her to the back of her mind. She had to stay focused.
One step at a time. She could get out of this. She could find a way to escape—she wouldn’t let herself be caught like this. Not again.
As the door slammed behind her, the cold weight of her situation settled over her. The farther they took her, the further she seemed to slip away from everything she once knew.
And, somehow, the emptiness in her chest—the one that had started with Azriel, with her own regrets—only seemed to grow.
-------
Azriel couldn’t breathe. The moment Cassian had burst into the room with the news that Y/n had been taken, something inside of him snapped. The tight, cold grip he’d placed on his emotions shattered, and for the first time in weeks, raw, unrelenting fury took control. He hadn’t thought about his wife much in the past few days—had buried himself in missions and training and Elain’s presence, but now, as the reality of her abduction set in, it was all he could think of.
Where the hell is my wife?
Rhysand’s voice had faded into the background as Azriel shoved past him, already moving, already planning. He wasn’t thinking clearly, didn’t care what anyone else had to say. They were in her land now. They had taken his wife, and that was something no one would get away with.
He was the shadowsinger, a mster spy, after all. So, it was only a matter of minutes before he found where the bastards had taken his woman.
The enemy camp was in a desolate part of the forest, surrounded by crumbling ruins. Azriel’s heart beat erratically as he winnowed in with Cassian and Rhysand by his side, their shadows flickering in the cold moonlight. Every inch of his body screamed for violence.
“Get her back, Az,” Cassian said, his voice low, but his eyes just as bloodshot with rage. They both understood that this wasn’t just about a fight—it was about protecting their own.
“Stay close,” Azriel muttered, but his mind was already focused on the task ahead. He couldn’t lose her. Not like this.
The chaos was immediate. His shadows lashed out, tearing through the enemy guards, their screams drowned by the sound of Azriel’s wings slicing through the air, the crack of bones breaking under his fists. He killed anyone who dared stand in his path, his every move laced with the rage he couldn’t keep contained. He didn’t need to think—just act.
And then, there she was.
Y/n.
She was slumped against the wall, pale and barely conscious, her body battered. Her arms were tied, her chest heaving with shallow breaths.
“Y/n!” he roared, voice hoarse with relief and fury as he saw her in that state.
Her eyes fluttered open for a split second, and then closed again, as if she didn’t even have the strength to acknowledge him. That did something to him—something he couldn’t name, something sharp and painful.
Without another thought, he was at her side, gently cutting through the ropes binding her with his shadows. His hands were trembling, but he couldn’t afford to care. “Please, stay with me, Y/n. I’m not leaving you here,” he whispered, his voice raw.
He picked her up carefully, cradling her against his chest as he shot one last look at the carnage around them. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Cassian and Rhysand were already clearing the way, ensuring there were no more threats. Azriel’s shadows fought off anyone who dared get too close as he winnowed them away from the enemy camp.
The moment they were back in the safety of their home, Azriel collapsed to his knees, his heart pounding in his chest. Y/n was limp in his arms, her face pale, her breathing erratic. His gaze flicked over her, and the sheer terror of what had just happened—of nearly losing her—made his stomach churn.
“Y/n,” he breathed, brushing her hair back from her forehead, his fingers trembling with urgency. He needed her to stay awake, needed her to hear him.
"Please, stay awake for me, please, sweetheart.” he begged, voice desperate, not caring if anyone heard the raw plea in his tone.
But her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow and strained. The darkness beneath her lids said everything he didn’t want to hear: she was slipping away.
And that realization—how close he had come to losing her—shattered him in ways he couldn’t begin to understand.
His anger was still there, like a storm waiting to break, but all he could feel now was the overwhelming need to protect her, to hold her, to never let anything like this happen again.
Her body was growing heavier in his arms, and her fingers, which had once clutched at him with fury and confusion, were now limp.
"Y/n," he whispered again, more softly this time, pressing his forehead to hers, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, stay with me."
But she didn’t answer, her breathing fading as the darkness of unconsciousness took hold. He felt the weight of her body as she collapsed fully against him, and his heart clenched painfully.
He couldn’t breathe. She was slipping away, and he couldn’t stop it.
Azriel stood there for a long moment, clutching her to him like she was the very air he breathed. His wings were spread protectively around them both, and though his body was screaming for him to act, to fight, to do something, all he could do was hold her close.
"Please," he whispered once more, his voice cracking. "Please don’t leave me."
A hand on his shoulder.
Feyre.
"Az, let go, we need her to be treated immediately."
---------
The first thing Y/n became aware of was the warmth surrounding her. She wasn’t sure where she was, but the soft texture beneath her body—silk sheets—told her that it wasn’t the filthy cell she’d just been in. Her mind was hazy, heavy, and every inch of her body ached, like she had been dragged through hell and back.
But the pain didn’t matter. She didn’t care.
Her eyes flickered open, and the first thing she saw was the dark silhouette of Azriel, standing beside her bed, his face strained and full of tension. His posture was rigid, his shadows curling around him, as if they, too, were on edge.
She swallowed the bitter taste of her own thoughts. She had no reason to feel anything, and yet her heart felt frozen in place. The emotions she had once tried to push aside were back, gnawing at her from the inside. Anger. Hurt. Indifference.
What had he done for her, really? She was alive, yes, but that was all. The person who had put her here—the person who had torn her life apart—was the one who had saved her.
He was standing there, as if it all made sense, as if they could go back to normal, as if the last few weeks had been anything other than a farce. She could feel the pity in his eyes, though it wasn’t obvious. His brow was furrowed, and his jaw clenched, his emotions in turmoil.
But none of it mattered.
"Azriel," she whispered, the sound of his name bitter on her tongue. She didn’t want to care about his distress, didn’t want to acknowledge it. His guilt, his regrets, his useless efforts—it all felt like too much. She pushed herself up on the bed slowly, her head swimming with the effort, her hands shaking. The whole world felt like a haze, but the bitterness that had settled deep in her chest was crystal clear.
"How nice," she spoke again, her voice cold, cutting through the air like ice. "You saved me, only after your people did all this shit to me. After they kidnapped me, tortured me. It’s funny, don’t you think? How your people did this to me, yet here you are, looking like you give a damn."
Azriel didn’t answer immediately. She could see his hands tighten into fists at his sides. He was still looking at her with those dark, unreadable eyes, his chest rising and falling as if he were holding his breath. She didn’t care.
She had spent so many weeks in this hell of a situation, forced to live in a marriage that felt more like a cage than anything else. His coldness toward her, his complete refusal to acknowledge her existence—none of it was forgotten. If anything, it had only made her hate him more.
"I don’t expect an apology," she said with a brittle laugh, "because I know I won’t get one."
Azriel’s mouth tightened, but she wasn’t sure if it was in anger or frustration. He was silent for a long moment, and the only sound in the room was the soft rustling of his shadows, as if they were waiting for his command. His eyes softened just a little, but Y/n refused to acknowledge it.
“Y/n,” he said finally, his voice strained but laced with something she couldn’t place. “I know you hate me. I don’t blame you. But—”
She cut him off with a sharp glance. “But nothing. It doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m still here, stuck with you and your family. With your people.”
Her chest tightened again, but she forced herself to ignore it. There was no space for weakness. No room for softness.
Azriel swallowed, his face contorting with some emotion she couldn’t read. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, as if searching for words that could repair the irreparable. But there was nothing. Nothing that would fix the broken trust. Nothing that would heal the wounds he had helped create.
Azriel watched her closely, feeling the weight of her words, feeling the coldness emanating from her. His heart ached in a way he couldn’t explain. The bitter realization settled in his chest, a slow burn of understanding.
She was his mate.
He had refused to believe it when he first felt it but....it all made sense. And the more he thought of it, the more he was surprised to find himself not feeling enraged with the idea.
He had panicked. Gone feral. Of course it made sense now. Why he had been so frantic when they’d taken her. Why he felt this overwhelming sense of protectiveness, why his world had turned upside down when he thought he had lost her. Why he refused to leave her side for even a single second these past few days.
But he couldn’t tell her. Not yet. She hated him, and rightfully so. He had spent weeks ignoring her, fighting against a bond he hadn’t known how to accept. Now that he understood, now that it was clear... It didn’t matter. She wouldn’t believe him.
“Y/n,” he said again, voice softer this time. He reached a hand out toward her, but she pulled away. She didn’t want him near her. Not now. Not after everything.
"I’m not asking for your forgiveness," Azriel continued, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice. "I just... I’ll do better. I’ll make an effort."
His words felt hollow, even to him. What could he possibly do to make this right? How could he fix what had been broken? How could he earn her trust back, when he had destroyed it so thoroughly?
Y/n didn’t answer him. She just stared at him, her eyes cold and unreadable. It made something deep inside him twist painfully.
“I don’t need your promises,” she finally spoke, her voice flat. “And I don’t need you to ‘try’ for me, Azriel. I don’t need you for anything.”
Her words stung, cutting deeper than anything he could’ve expected. But they were the truth. She hated him, and he deserved it.
Still, the pull between them remained undeniable, even if she refused to see it.
Azriel didn’t move. He didn’t know what else to say. There was nothing left to say.
Y/n felt the emptiness spread inside her. The room felt too small, the air too heavy. She wanted to be anywhere but here—anywhere but in this cage of her own making.
But she was still here. And nothing was going to change that.
And no amount of promises could make her believe that Azriel was ever going to be the man she needed.
----------
The days had blurred together since the night she had collapsed in his arms. Y/n’s body still ached, but it was a dull, almost forgettable pain now. It had been replaced by the ache of something deeper—something she refused to acknowledge. And Azriel was still there. Every morning, every evening. Silent, but ever-present.
At first, she had ignored him. At first, she’d kept herself isolated from him, refusing to speak, refusing to even look in his direction. But over the past week, something had shifted. It wasn’t that she had softened—no, it wasn’t that easy. But there were moments, fleeting, almost invisible, when his presence didn’t annoy her as much. When she’d see him at the door, a cup of tea in his hand, his eyes soft as he looked at her, and for a brief second, her chest would tighten—not with anger, but with something else.
Something like... relief?
“No more lectures today,” Azriel had said the night before, after yet another one of his silent offerings of tea.
Y/n had shot him a look, her mouth curling into a mock smile. “I didn’t ask for your company,” she snapped, but the words felt hollow even to her.
He’d shrugged and set the cup on the table beside her. “I’m not here for your approval. Just... here."
She had expected him to say something about his promise to “try harder” or some nonsense, but he didn’t. He just left, the sound of his footsteps faint as they receded down the hall.
It was... different.
--------
Two weeks after the attack, Y/n found herself trying to get up from the bed and walk again. Her fingers running over the old wooden dresser. There was a strange sense of isolation she couldn’t shake, despite the fact that she was under the same roof as him and his family. Despite the fact that he was so close, his presence was always felt, even when he wasn’t physically in the room.
It was impossible to ignore him, and for some reason, it frustrated her to no end.
Her mind drifted back to that night, to their conversation in the healing room. The one where Azriel had apologized again, as if it would fix things. She didn’t understand why he cared so much, and maybe that was what irritated her. Maybe that was the part she didn’t want to understand.
Just as she turned to the door, there he was, standing in the doorway, his usual shadowed presence filling the space.
“I don’t need you here,” Y/n said before he could say anything, her voice harsh.
Azriel took a slow breath, his gaze unwavering. “I know.”
She froze, the harsh words hanging in the air between them. She expected him to back down, to offer an apology. But instead, he took a step forward, his wings flexing in a fluid motion.
“I’m not leaving. But I’ll stay out of your way.” His voice was low, almost too careful. He came and gently took ahold of her arm, helping her move around. And for the first time in weeks, Y/n felt something different—something close to a sigh of relief.
----------
Another few days passed, and somehow, against every instinct she had, Y/n found herself standing next to Azriel in the heart of Velaris. The City of Starlight, as Rhysand called it, was beautiful beyond measure—its elegance, its warmth, its life, pulsing through every street, every corner.
The night was warm, the air fragrant with flowers, the glow of lanterns casting a soft golden hue over the cobblestones. For a moment, Y/n forgot about the tensions, about the animosity between her and Azriel. The city had a way of washing away that bitterness, as though its magic had seeped into her very bones.
This was truly the first time she came to explore the city since her arrival in here.
“You’re not afraid of it?” she asked, her voice soft as she turned to Azriel, who had been walking beside her, seemingly lost in thought.
Azriel glanced at her, his face unreadable for a moment before a small smile tugged at his lips. “Afraid of Velaris? No. I’m afraid of what I might do to you here, though.”
Y/n met his gaze, and for once, she didn’t feel the sharp edge of anger that usually followed whenever they spoke. “I don’t need your protection.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice quiet but firm. “You don’t. But I’d like to be here for you anyway.”
Y/n didn’t respond, but she didn’t pull away either. Instead, she let herself enjoy the night. It was small—so small—but it was something.
----------
The days had blurred together since the night she had collapsed in his arms. Y/n’s body still ached, but it was a dull, almost forgettable pain now. It had been replaced by the ache of something deeper—something she refused to acknowledge. And Azriel was still there. Every morning, every evening. Silent, but ever-present.
At first, she had ignored him. At first, she’d kept herself isolated from him, refusing to speak, refusing to even look in his direction. But over the past week, something had shifted. It wasn’t that she had softened—no, it wasn’t that easy. But there were moments, fleeting, almost invisible, when his presence didn’t annoy her as much. When she’d see him at the door, a cup of tea in his hand, his eyes soft as he looked at her, and for a brief second, her chest would tighten—not with anger, but with something else.
Something like... relief?
“No more lectures today,” Azriel had said the night before, after yet another one of his silent offerings of tea.
Y/n had shot him a look, her mouth curling into a mock smile. “I didn’t ask for your company,” she snapped, but the words felt hollow even to her.
He’d shrugged and set the cup on the table beside her. “I’m not here for your approval. Just... here."
She had expected him to say something about his promise to “try harder” or some nonsense, but he didn’t. He just left, the sound of his footsteps faint as they receded down the hall.
It was... different.
It had been three weeks since the incident that nearly tore her apart, and today was different. Today, something inside her had shifted. The cold walls she’d built around herself, the ones she’d reinforced with every cruel word, every insult, every bit of anger toward him—they were slowly crumbling.
Y/n had been in the courtyard of Rhysand’s estate, sitting on a bench, watching the sun set over the city when Azriel appeared beside her.
“I have something I want to show you,” he said, his voice low, hesitant in a way that was both surprising and familiar.
Y/n raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He extended his hand toward her, and for a long moment, she simply stared at it. His shadows curled around him, his presence unmistakable, but it wasn’t commanding anymore. It was... something else. Gentle. Inviting.
He didn’t say anything else. Just stood there, waiting for her to make the choice.
Slowly, reluctantly, she stood and placed her hand in his.
The world shifted beneath them.
In an instant, the ground disappeared from beneath their feet, and Y/n gasped, her body jerking slightly. She instinctively grabbed onto Azriel’s shoulders, her pulse quickening as they soared higher into the sky. The wind whipped through her hair, the city shrinking below them, and the stars stretched endlessly above.
Azriel’s voice was a soft hum in the air as they flew through the night. “I wanted you to see the city from here. From above.”
Y/n’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t help herself. It was too beautiful, too breathtaking.
“I didn’t think you’d ever want to share this with me,” she whispered, her grip tightening slightly on his arm.
Azriel glanced at her, his eyes full of something she couldn’t quite place. “I don’t know why I’m showing you this. But I want you to understand. Velaris is mine to protect... and now, it’s yours too.”
Her heart pounded, but this time, it wasn’t from fear. It was something else. Something warmer, like the firelight crackling in the hearth back at Rhysand’s house.
And when they landed, her feet once again on solid ground, she didn’t pull away immediately. Her hand remained in his, his other hand still keeping her tight and close to his body, and for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to retract.
For once, she felt... safe.
-------------
And so it went on, day after day, as her an Azriel got closer and closer, him constantly making efforts to be with her.
"I never had anyone who supported me. My aprents aren't exactly the most.....nicest beings on the planet."
Azriel looked down at her, in his arms, as they both stood in the balcony. His grip on her tightened as he said firmly, “Then I’ll be the one who supports you,” He hadn’t planned on saying those words. They just... slipped out. But once they were out in the open, he felt a weight lift off his chest, like a truth he’d been trying to avoid for far too long.
Y/n shifted slightly in his arms, her gaze fixed on the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to dip below the skyline of Velaris. Her expression was unreadable, but the tension in her body softened, just a fraction. “You don’t have to. No one has to. I’ve always done fine on my own.”
Azriel’s hand moved slightly, tracing the line of her shoulder, his thumb brushing against her skin in the way he’d seen himself do to comfort others—except this time, he wasn’t comforting anyone else. He was comforting her. His mate. The thought still sent a jolt through him every time, but the longer he was with her, the more natural it felt.
“I know you’re used to doing things on your own,” Azriel murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “But you don’t have to anymore.”
She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Why? Why do you even care?” The question was blunt, almost sharp, but there was no anger in it—just the echo of confusion and wariness.
Azriel swallowed, feeling something shift in him. Something... softer, but stronger at the same time. “Because I’m not like your parents, Y/n,” he said quietly, the words coming from deep within. “I’m not going to turn my back on you. Not now. Not ever.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. The world around them seemed to fade away, leaving only the sound of their breaths in the quiet of the evening. Y/n looked up at him, her eyes searching his face as if trying to figure out if he meant it, if he was lying.
The silence stretched between them, heavy and thick with unspoken words, and then she sighed softly, her eyes dropping to the ground. “I don’t know if I can trust that,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “I’ve been let down before.”
Azriel felt his heart tighten. He knew all too well the feeling of being betrayed, of being left alone. But now wasn’t the time for his own wounds to resurface. This was about her. He stepped closer, his hands gently cupping her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I won’t let you down. I can’t promise it will be easy, but I can promise I’ll always be here. For you.”
Y/n didn’t respond right away, her lips parted as if to speak, but the words never came. Instead, she just nodded, once, almost imperceptibly.
Azriel leaned forward then, slowly, hesitating for just a fraction of a second before pressing his forehead gently against hers. “I’m here, sweetpea,” he whispered again, his voice a soft, steady promise. “And I’ll keep being here.”
And in that moment, something cracked in her chest. It wasn’t trust—at least not yet—but it was a shift. A tiny step toward letting him in.
For the first time in a long while, Y/n didn’t feel so alone.
-------
As the days and weeks passed, the distance between Y/n and Azriel shrank. Slowly but surely, she let her guard down, just a little. His presence became more and more a part of her routine, his quiet support a constant in her life. They were no longer strangers trapped in a forced marriage. They were two people learning to understand one another, navigating through the walls they'd built up around themselves.
Azriel's efforts were unwavering. He would sit beside her when she needed company, but he also gave her space when she wanted to retreat into herself. They shared small, silent moments: him waiting for her to speak when she wasn't sure if she could, him showing her parts of Velaris she hadn't yet seen, him listening to her thoughts when she finally dared to open up. In turn, Y/n began to share more and more, until her ice-cold exterior started to melt, just a little at a time.
But still, she kept her distance emotionally. She was hesitant to allow herself to get too close, to let herself feel anything beyond the surface. Because underneath, she still wasn’t sure if she could trust it. Could trust him.
One evening, when the moon hung low in the sky, Azriel brought her to the edge of a quiet garden just outside the city. The stars glittered overhead, and the air was cool, the scent of night-blooming flowers filling the space around them. He stood beside her, quiet as always, but there was something different in his posture tonight. Something weighted, something serious.
Y/n was standing a few paces away, her back turned, arms crossed over her chest as she stared out at the vast, star-filled sky. She had gotten used to the silence between them, but tonight it felt heavy, almost as if he were waiting for something.
“You’ve been distant tonight,” she said, not turning around. She knew he was there, felt his presence in a way that had become familiar.
Azriel shifted, his shadowed wings shifting with him. “I’ve been thinking,” he started, his voice a bit quieter than usual. “About... everything.”
Y/n didn’t look at him, not yet. But she felt the weight of his gaze on her, pulling her attention in ways she couldn’t ignore. "About what?" Her voice was guarded, but there was a softness to it now.
Azriel took a step closer, his hand reaching out, though he hesitated before touching her. He wasn’t sure how she would react—if she would push him away again. “About us. And what comes next.”
The words stirred something in her. Y/n slowly turned to face him, her expression unreadable, but she was feeling something now—something she hadn't let herself feel before. Her heart, cold and distant for so long, was starting to thaw.
“What do you mean by ‘what comes next’?” she asked, her voice faintly trembling.
Azriel exhaled softly, his eyes locking onto hers, and for the first time in a long while, Y/n saw the full weight of his feelings—of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t shown. "Y/n, you’ve been through so much. I know that. And we’ve both been trying to navigate a marriage that wasn’t our choice. But what I’m about to say... it matters. And I’ve been afraid, afraid to tell you. But it's time."
Y/n frowned, the confusion on her face deepening. “What are you talking about?”
Azriel stepped closer, closing the distance between them. His eyes never left hers, and she could see the vulnerability in them now. The walls he'd built, even for her, were starting to crumble. He had kept so much from her, kept his distance when he shouldn't have. And now, it was time to tell her the truth.
“You’re my mate,” he said softly, the words coming out almost as a whisper. "I knew the moment I brought you back, Y/n. I didn’t want to tell you then... We were both still so caught up in our own worlds. I thought you wouldn’t want me. I thought it was too much. But now I can’t pretend anymore.”
Y/n blinked, her heart stopping for a beat. The words felt like a punch to the gut—everything she’d been trying to avoid hearing, but somehow, deep down, she had known. It was always there, lurking just beneath the surface. The way they had gravitated toward one another, the way she felt when she was with him. It wasn’t just a bond created by circumstance.
“Wait... you knew?” Y/n’s voice was quiet, but the disbelief in it was impossible to miss. “You knew all this time, and you didn’t tell me?” Her voice started to shake with the sudden rush of emotions she hadn’t let herself feel. The anger, the confusion, the hurt. It all came rushing back. “Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”
Azriel took a step back, his hands flexing at his sides as if he were torn between stepping closer or retreating. “I thought—” he paused, trying to find the right words. “I thought you’d be angry. I thought you wouldn’t want me. You were already dealing with everything. You didn’t need the pressure of that on top of it. I couldn’t give you more pain.”
Y/n’s heart ached at his words, but there was anger too, rising like a tide inside her. “You couldn’t have trusted me enough to tell me? To let me decide for myself? You can’t just assume how I feel about you, Azriel. You don’t get to make those decisions for me.”
Azriel winced at her words, but there was nothing he could say to make it better. He had made a mistake. A huge one. “I’m sorry, Y/n. I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do with it. But now... I can’t pretend anymore. You’re my mate. I never should’ve kept it from you.”
Her breath hitched, and for a moment, the world felt still. She wasn’t sure how to respond. She was angry, but deep down, there was something else—something softer, something that wanted to understand, wanted to reach out. But trust didn’t come easily for her. Not after everything.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to do with you.”
Azriel's heart clenched. “I’m not asking you to know right now. But I’ll be here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Y/n didn't respond immediately. Instead, she stepped back, her eyes still locked on his, but her heart was a tumult of emotions she couldn’t put into words. “I need time,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him.
Azriel nodded, his expression softening. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be here.”
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It was a week later that they fully gave into one another.
Y/n hadn't expected this, she truly didn't. She was still processing everything, how crazy it all was. How, for the past four months, her life has been nothing but a roller coaster.
At first, she was certain she hated him. Despised him even.
But now, after all that happened, and especially after his confession, she couldn't hide her growing feelings anymore. Her mother would have been disappointed. Feelings are a weakness. But-
"You seem to be lost in thought."
Y/n lifted her head from her bed to see Azriel, standing in her doorway, arms crossed, a small smile on his lips.
She just sighed and leaned back down on her bed, slowly gesturing for him to come sit beside her. "So much is happening...I don't know what to feel anymore."
She felt the bed dip beside her as Azriel sat, "Well, if you tell me-"
His words were cut off as his eyes lowered and he took in the sheer, dark blue, nightgown she was wearing. It wasn't intentional really, she just put on what her hand took ahold of first but now....as she sat there and watched as her mate's eyes went darker and darker as he stared more and more, y/n couldn't help but feel proud of herself.
And so, that was how it began.
How they slowly got closer and closer until only mere inches seperated them before they both succumbed to their needs and kissed.
Denying Azriel's attrctiveness was like denying the existence of life itself.
And before either registered it, they were both naked, with Azriel kissing, sucking and biting each part of her. Her moans echoing throughout the room, handds scratching his scalp, their bodies glued to one another.
"So beautiful." a kiss to her collarbone, "So fucking beautiful."
"Mother above, look at these breasts. Can't believe you've been hiding them from me for four months."
Praises kept falling from Azriels lips as eventually, they were both connected fully. The second his cock entered her, Azriel couldn't help the groan that left his throat. His thighs seperating her legs further as he started off slowly, to savour this moment. His hands were palming her breasts, eyes glued to her face, her body, her expression, every little part, really.
She was perfect.
Then she held her arms open, open for him to lay his head in the crook of her neck as his hips began taking on a faster pace, his breathy moans and groans mixing with hers.
"F-fuck, that's it, s-sweetpie. Keep making those moans for me."
They didn't stop the whole night, going at it like a newly mated couple which...they probably were at this point.
Eventually though, by sunrise, they were entangled together, his dick still semi-hard inside of her.
"You are all mine." Azriel's voice dripped with posession as he kissed her neck, nuzzling his head there.
Y/n smiled slightly.
"Oh really? and here I thought I was just another one of your many projects. How flattering.”
Azriel’s eyes flashed with a mix of amusement and something deeper. “You’re not just a project,” he replied, his voice low, serious even, as his fingers brushed against the small of her back. “You’re mine. And I don’t take what’s mine lightly.”
Y/n rolled her eyes, though her heart fluttered in her chest despite her best efforts to remain indifferent. “Uh-huh, and that’s supposed to make me feel special?”
Azriel chuckled softly, leaning in to press his lips to her temple, soft and lingering. “It’s supposed to make you feel safe,” he said quietly, the playful tone in his voice fading for a moment. “And you are special, Y/n. More than you know.”
She looked at him, unsure of what to make of his sincerity. For all his strength, his power, his ability to overwhelm her with his presence, there was a vulnerability in the way he said those words that caught her off guard.
“Guess I’ll have to get used to that, huh?” she muttered, her voice softer now.
He smiled gently, pulling her closer, his wings folding protectively around them both. “Only if you want to.”
And apparently, she did want to. Because as they lay there talking about their future, the new chapter of their marriage, she couldn't help but wonder how it had all shifted so unexpectedly.
But it also made her realise something. Maybe they weren’t perfect. Maybe they didn’t have all the answers. But they had each other. And for now, that was enough.
A/N: Thank you @batboyslutt for this request! I had so many different ideas for it, but unfortunately I could choose only one. I hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏻 and sorry for posting it later than usual, but I'm writing these day by day
Prompts: "We shouldn't be doing this. This is wrong." + "Why can't you just admit the truth?" + angst + smut + forbidden romance because of Rhys
Warnings: smut, p in v, creampie, bit of miscommunication, arguments
Word count: 1.5k
Azriel’s kisses grew more insistent as his mouth trailed down to your neck, nipping at the soft skin there. Your eyes were closed, your hands tangled in his hair, sliding down his back, holding onto him like you never wanted to let go.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he mumbled against your skin, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even lift his head from the crook of your neck. “This is wrong.”
So he’d said—multiple times already.
You rolled your eyes. “Azriel,” you groaned. You cupped his cheeks and forced him to meet your gaze. “If you say that one more time while you’re balls-deep inside me, I am going to leave. Is that clear?”
Azriel’s hips faltered mid-thrust, then stilled, though he didn’t pull out. His breath was ragged, his eyes wide, his hair thoroughly mussed from your fingers running through it.
For a moment, you just stared at each other.
It was an argument you’d had more than once before, and you knew this wouldn’t be the last time. But for him to bring it up during sex? That, you would not stand for.
Azriel closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He lowered his head to rest his forehead on your chest, his breath warm against your flushed skin. “I’m sorry, princess.”
You sighed. Careful not to brush against his slumped wings, you wrapped your arms around him and tugged him closer.
“Let’s not talk about this right now,” you murmured. These were some of the last few moments you’d have together before he left for the continent, and you had no intention of wasting them on the same old conversation. “I think we were in the middle of something.”
Azriel lifted his head to look at you, gratitude flickering in his gaze before a smirk bloomed on his beautiful face. “Yes, we were.”
He rolled his hips once, driving himself deeper inside you, and you gasped softly. From there, it was easy to forget the last couple of minutes and focus on nothing but each other.
Azriel resumed his movements, thrusting into you with slow, deep strokes that drew groans from both of you. Each sound was swallowed by a kiss—lips and tongues eager to meet, hands wandering across hard planes and soft curves. Your bodies moved together as if they were made for this, as if you and he were the only beings in the whole world and nothing else mattered.
Pleasure coiled tight in your core, ready to snap with each deliberate thrust. A whispered plea was all Azriel needed to pick up the pace. He brushed his lips up your jaw to your ear, murmuring quiet encouragements and tender words that made your heart swell.
With a breathy moan, you squirmed beneath him, fingers digging into the muscles of his arms as pleasure overwhelmed you. Azriel was close behind you, your release tipping him over the edge as well. He rocked his hips a few more times before spilling himself inside you, holding himself there for a moment, panting against your ear as you both slowly came down from your high.
You turned your head to capture his lips in another kiss, trying to convey everything you felt for him through that simple gesture—the affection, the desire, the emotions you still hadn’t voiced aloud.
Azriel kissed you back, pressing you into the mattress before rolling onto his side. He opened his arms, and you immediately snuggled closer, curling up against his chest. He kissed the top of your head, and for a few moments, you simply lay there, basking in the quiet afterglow.
But as the minutes ticked by and the lingering passion faded, his words crept back into your mind. You tried to push them away, to focus on the steady rise and fall of his chest and the lazy strokes of his hand along your back, but they refused to leave.
You hesitated briefly before speaking, your voice quiet. “Why can’t you just admit the truth?”
He frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just…” You searched for the right words, trying not to sound too confrontational. “You always say you don’t want my brother to know because he’s very protective of me, but I think there’s more to it.”
Azriel hummed, seemingly unconvinced. “And what do you think it is, then?”
“I think you’re scared,” you admitted. “Scared of how he’d react if he found out. That he’d tell you you don’t deserve to be with me and that I should find someone else.”
His hand stilled where it had been tracing slow circles on your hip. His expression was unreadable, his golden-brown eyes fixed on you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he pulled away. Sitting up against the headboard, his wings stretched wide behind him, casting shadows over the sheets.
“That’s not what this is about,” he said. His voice was firm, but his gaze didn’t meet yours.
You pushed yourself up as well, keeping your eyes on him. You had thought about this for a long time now—how your brother would react if he knew about your relationship. You weren’t naive. You knew Rhys would be furious at first. But you also knew he would come around and realize that his little sister was grown, that he couldn’t keep males away from her forever. That she could choose for herself who to love.
“Az,” you called, taking his hand in yours. You waited until he finally looked at you again before you continued. “I know telling him might seem terrifying, but Rhys would be happy to know it’s you. You’re his best friend, and I’m his sister. If we make each other happy, why would he be against it?”
Azriel shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”
That excuse again. It’s not that simple. You make it sound so easy. You don’t understand. He wouldn’t understand. Always the same words, but never a real answer.
And you were growing tired of it.
Frustration flared hot in your chest as you pulled your hand back.
“Then explain it to me,” you demanded. Your tone was sharper than intended, but you didn’t particularly care anymore. “Because from where I’m standing, the only other explanation is that you value Rhysand’s friendship more than… whatever this thing between us is.”
Azriel’s brow knitted together, his expression torn between confusion and disbelief. “You know what this is, princess. You know I love you.”
“So you’ve said.”
The words hung heavy in the air. You saw the flicker of hurt in his hazel eyes, and your chest ached in response. But you didn’t take it back. You couldn’t.
“What is that supposed to mean?” His voice was quieter now, cautious.
You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze and push the words out. “It means that saying the words isn’t enough. You have to show me. And right now, you’re not doing a great job.”
Azriel inhaled sharply, as if stung. “At least I love you.”
The moment the words left his lips, regret flashed across his face. But it was too late.
They landed like a blade to the chest, slicing through the last thread of your patience.
“Y/N, I—”
You batted away the hand he reached toward you and instead got up to collect the clothes scattered on the floor.
“I do love you, Azriel,” you said, voice tight as you yanked your underwear back on. “But do you want to know why I never told you?”
He looked startled by your declaration at first, but he quickly nodded when he realized you were waiting for an answer.
“Because I didn’t want to get hurt,” you admitted, fingers swiftly buttoning up your shirt. "Because you want to keep this a secret, while I think that what we have is worth so much more than just a few stolen moments in the dark.” You slipped into your trousers, your eyes still on him. “Because I’m tired of hiding from my friends and family just because you’re scared of how my brother might react.”
Azriel said nothing. His jaw was tense, his gaze locked onto the crumpled blankets, refusing to meet your gaze.
Despite the ache in your heart, you stepped back toward the door.
“I won’t hide anymore,” you went on. “Not when it makes you miserable, but you refuse to change it. It's making me miserable too.” You let out a deep breath. “You have to make a choice, Azriel. But if you really love me like you say you do… then it should be an easy one.”
Your fingers curled around the doorknob. Still, he didn’t look at you—didn’t try to talk you out of it, to convince you to stay, to stop you from leaving.
Your blood boiled in your veins.
“Good luck on your mission,” you spat, slamming the door behind you.
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