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May 22

Eris Vanserra - Sneak Peek of Work in Progress

Eris Vanserra x Archeron!reader

Word count: 5.8K

Here’s a sneak peek of the first part of my Eris Vanserra story! I’m calling this a first draft because this is all I’ve written and I’ve still yet to plan where I want this story to go, so I may end up tweaking this part later on. I’m debating whether I will post this story as I write it or wait until I have it half way or fully finished so there’s not so much of a wait in between parts. I’m playing around with the idea of making the reader autistic-coded in honor of me recently finding out that I’m autistic 🤪

You cower underneath the attention, tilting your head down before it can become too much. Your body tucks itself slightly behind Azriel almost involuntarily. The male straightens, pulling his wings closer to himself to give you more room. You feel the weight of Feyre’s assessing gaze on you as soon as you make the movement.

The familiar sensation of claws grazing against the precariously placed bricks you’ve built up in your mind follows soon after. It takes effort to move one of the bricks aside without the whole wall toppling over. She darts through quickly, having grown used to the unstable environment by now. The brick seals itself back in place, leaving only you and the presence of Feyre’s mental link in the expanse of your mind.

“We talked about this.”

You feel sweat start to pool on your brow, threatening to smear the carefully applied makeup Mor had spent an hour on this afternoon while you had fidgeted and ruminated.

It takes a couple seconds to obey, to force your body into action, but you do, slowly stepping back into your previous position beside Azriel. Your body screams in discomfort as you leave the comforting hiding spot. You don’t know much about the male, but one known in this sea of unknowns you’ve been drowning in for the past two years is that he’s safe. Steady. Stable. Stick by him and you’ll be protected.

The shadowsinger angles his head the slightest bit in your direction—a silent question. You don’t look at him. In fact, you don’t look at anybody, instead studying your heeled feet. It’s all you can manage at the moment, and you make that fact known by forcing a brick to slide out of place again.

Feyre gets the message, lingering back a couple seconds before whisking herself through the small gap. You grit your teeth as you close up the gap, wanting nothing more than to disappear. She should have predicted this outcome. What did she expect would happen when you’re put in a situation like this?

You tug at the sides of your dress uncomfortably. It’s too tight, too restricting—and yet not restricting enough considering how little clothing you’re wearing right now. Your back is on full display for all to see. You shiver as you fantasize about reaching up to rip the pins out of your hair that are currently holding your delicate updo in place. They’re digging into your scalp. You’re used to having your hair down. It’s become a sort of shield of sorts. With your hair tucked up and out of the way, you can’t help but feel like a doll on display.

A soft feather-light sensation tickles your ankles. You recognize the telltale sign of Azriel’s shadows as they slither closer to you and Elain, cocooning you two as much as they can without being too obvious. Elain doesn’t look much better than you, you observe when you tilt your head to the side.

She looks completely out of place, all dressed in black and covered in a heavy layer of makeup. The dark eyeshadow brings out her sickly pale complexion in a rather unflattering way. One can only compare it to a house cat masquerading as a lion. She's not fooling anyone, and neither are you. At least she can keep her head up, unlike you, though the all too familiar glazed over look in her eyes isn’t helping anything. Shame on them for making her come here in this state.

You know you more closely resemble a macabre clown than the powerful and confident sister-in-law of the High Lord that you’re supposed to be embodying. They must have thought dressing you in the same dark garb as Elain would hide the cracks in your facade, but it only shows how unfit you are for the role. The face you saw in the mirror earlier had given you an uncanny feeling. It’s not you and you don’t know why Feyre insists on pretending it is—why they all have to pretend to be someone they’re not.

Your heart beats a bit quicker as the male saunters closer to the dais. The reason they’re all here. His shiny, but practical boots come into view, followed by his perfectly tailored pants. You’ve never been in his presence before now. Yes, he’s visited the House of Wind time and time again while he and the others carefully planned his father’s downfall, but you were always conveniently tucked away in your room—and that’s the way you prefer it.

You had made the decision early on upon arriving to the Night Court. You aren’t fit to handle the political pressures of nobility—the fake smiles, the gossiping, the scheming. Saying one thing but meaning the other. You’ve never been good at pretending, which is why you’re having so much trouble now. The thought of being a pawn in someone else’s game unnerves you, so when had Rhysand offered you free food, shelter, and protection, telling you you and your sisters would never have to get involved in court life if you did not wish to, you believed him.

You’ve spent the past two years baking, reading, and gardening, sticking to a comfortable routine because it soothes you. After a lifetime of hardships and poverty, the call of an easy life had been too tempting. For the first time in your twenty something years of living, your nervous system has been calm—at least as calm as it can be given the situation. There’s no more danger, no more worrying about starving to death. But life is not without its difficulties. With all the good comes bad, and when it’s bad, it’s bad.

You can still remember the cold clinging to your skin as you were plunged into the Cauldron—a coldness that still lingers even now. Everything had changed. Everything, down to the elongation of your limbs and the point of your ears. You’ve never been one to handle change well, and this was the transformation of all transformations. No reversal, no cure.

So yes, you inherited an easier, calmer life, but the adjustment hasn’t been easy. To go from having nothing to having everything was a challenge within itself. The expectation of an 80ish year lifespan—if you were lucky—turned into centuries upon centuries…it’s not normal and you couldn’t rationalize it no matter how much you had tried, so you’d given up.

Oh, you had tried, wondering why you? Why do you get to live a life of such luxury while your neighbors back in the Mortal Lands are left to live in squalor? How did you come to be one of only five people in the world to be given immorality—to be transformed into a creature capable of such wildness and strength when all you’ve ever known is structure and weakness?

Eventually, all that you could do was accept it. So you did, dealing with the nightmares, the panic attacks, the need to be told it’s okay every five minutes—consequences of your world being flipped upside down. Those consequences hadn’t ceased yet, but they had become part of your routine. An expectation. You had convinced yourself you were safe inside Velaris’ high walls and wards. Safe within routine, within familiarity. Then he came.

A wrinkle in the tidy white picket fence life you’ve created for yourself. An unknown. You didn’t like unknowns. For as long as you can remember, change has always screwed everything up. The change from adolescence to adulthood, the change from day to night, the change from mortal to Fae. So when Feyre came to you, explaining that some strange Fae was going to start visiting every few weeks, invading the House of Wind—a place that’s become your safe haven—you didn’t like it one bit.

They told you to go to your room when he comes. Don’t get involved with him. You didn’t have to be told twice, never letting yourself get a glimpse of him. You didn’t want to hear the violence they discussed with such calmness and casualty, as if it was normal. What kind of person is capable of killing their own father? Even if the father had been filled with awful cruelty from what you’ve been told, how can a person take a life with such grace? No regrets, no sadness, just utter calm and coolness. It’s as if it meant nothing to him. Time and time again you’ve wondered why Rhysand would align himself with a Fae like him.

The new High Lord of Autumn Court. This is a celebration for him after all. A show of commitment to him and everybody else—a promise that the Night Court stands behind this new High Lord. They had made it look like an accident, but everybody knew the cold hard truth. A High Lord doesn’t just die like that. A High Lord is not so easily tricked. The only answer to someone with half a brain is foul play, but who will stand against him when he has the power of Rhysand and the Night Court behind him? It was a joint effort. Both High Lords would go down for this if someone decides to get cocky and challenge the details surrounding that night.

So all that is left to do is double down and accept this alliance, no matter how much you and the Inner Circle may hate it—and hope against hope that he’ll be a better High Lord than his father. It would be cruel fate after all to replace one bad High Lord with another.

Why you are needed here confounds you—in the Hewn City. You have to be there, Feyre had said. This night also serves as a show of power, both to the people of the other courts and Eris Vanserra himself. Just because he is now aligned with us, it doesn’t make us his plaything…or at least that’s how Feyre had explained it to you. You took her word for it, not knowing how any of this works. This could very well have taken place in the Autumn Court, but Eris had said the Autumn Court is no place for these types of frivolities, according to Cassian. Whatever the case, it likely would have been a more comfortable place than here.

You’ve never been here before, but you can already tell this is a place you never want to step foot in again. Keep your shields up. That’s what Rhysand had instructed you to do before you arrived here. Don’t ever let them down there. There are eyes and ears everywhere. The only safe place is your mind.

You take another shaky breath, trying to focus on both simultaneously keeping your mental shields intact and not having a panic attack. You never keep your shields up at home. All the others had learned to keep it up at all times as if it’s as easy as breathing, but the effort strains you, so you choose to only use it when necessary. It’s not like Rhysand or Feyre would find your thoughts very interesting. Feyre always chides you for it, saying there will come a time when you’ll need to be on guard. Now’s the time…and you’re unprepared.

The male stops at the foot of the dais. You’ve yet to look up, too afraid to look out at the crowd. You hear Rhysand adjust himself in his seat—throne, you remind yourself—clearing his throat before speaking.

“Nice of you to finally join us, Eris,” he drawls lazily. It doesn’t sound like his usual manner of speaking. You’re confused for a moment before you remember this is all an act. Right. He’s supposed to be playing the menacing High Lord, not the generous man you’ve come to know him as.

The male chuckles almost inaudibly. “Apologies. The security here is rather overstated. I had to wait to be frisked before I could join the fun.”

A joke—at least you think it is judging by the nervous chuckles that fill the room. You wonder if the other attendees are picking up on the sudden tension between these two High Lords. To everybody else the words may sound calm and lackadaisical, but you detect a level of fakeness and snark underneath his joking tone that surprises you. To address Rhysand like that…then again, maybe all High Lords are like this. Switching one mask for another, constantly playing a never-ending game. The thought exhausts you.

Rhysand sucks his teeth before responding, refusing to play along with the joke. “Allow me to introduce my family. There are some members you have yet to meet.”

You hold your breath, preparing to be unveiled for the very first time. Most others must not even know of your existence with how little you leave the House of Wind. Azriel steps imperceptibly closer to you and Elain.

“Go on, then,” the male concedes, as if he hasn’t been secretly meeting in your house for months.

“Of course you know Feyre.”

The male must’ve nodded because you hear no response.

You see Feyre lift from her throne out of the corner of your eye. “It’s nice of you to come, Eris. We look forward to seeing how High Lordship becomes you.”

Another chuckle. “I’ve had a lot of time to prepare.”

You worry at your lower lip. That sounds an awful lot like a nod to the circumstances behind his late father’s death. Why even hint at that in front of all of these people? He’s just asking to be confronted about it.

Feyre sits down stiffly. Rhysand continues on as if nothing out of the ordinary was said. “And Cassian, of course.”

You hear Cassian take a step forward in acknowledgement from their left before stepping back again. No words are exchanged between the two males.

Feyre speaks again. “I believe you danced with my sister Nesta some time ago.”

You watch as Nesta steps out of line and gives one of the most dramatic curtseys you’ve ever seen. She’s never cared about what people thought of her—a trait you envy. You know a sneer must be painted on her face right now.

The male hums. “I remember it well.”

Nesta joins the line up again, prompting Azriel to step forward before Rhysand can address him. The numerous weapons strapped to him rustle as he does so. You shiver again now that his solid warmth is no longer beside you. You’re next.

“How’s life faring, shadowsinger?” Eris taunts.

You find yourself frowning at the poor treatment of your companion. You aren’t best friends by any means, but he is always by your side—by anyone’s side—when they’re in need of a stable presence.

“Fine now that you’ve graced us with your presence, Vanserra,” Azriel quips before sidling up next to you again. It’s clear that the two do not like each other.

An audible gulp is heard from you as you psyche yourself up to be judged by all of these people. A mantra plays on a loop in your head. Don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up, don’t mess this up.

Feyre’s voice is quieter now, as though she knows how hard this is for you and she doesn’t want to make it worse by becoming another loud sound in the room. “Meet my youngest sister, y/n.”

Seconds tick by as you sit there trying to force yourself to lift your head. Come on. Just do it. Lift your head. Feyre will be mad if you don’t. Lift your fucking head.

The scrape of claws against brick forces you into action. Your head lifts mechanically, almost as though you're a puppet being pulled by a string. Your eyes are attracted to the first bright color you see—a blotch of red hair. Just like Lucien’s, you think.

He’s not looking at you, his face downcast, instead studying the shadows swirling around your ankles. Your attention is quickly pulled away, not being able to help but scan the room. So many people. Staring. Right at you. Feasting upon your weakness like crows. The lights are so bright, the murmurs around the room too loud. Make them stop. Make them stop staring—

Azriel grabs your elbow firmly. It’s grounding. Not too soft, not too hard. Your eyes focus back on the color you were drawn to in the first place. He’s looking at you now. Intensely. You take in all the details. His pale skin, his sharp bone structure, his foxlike eyes. Definitely High Fae. A slight frown muddles his pretty features…disapproval.

You give a slight nod, forcing yourself to exchange pleasantries as you’ve been taught. It’s hard to hold his gaze and yet you feel like you can’t look away. This must be how he puts people under his spell.

His hands form into fists, knuckles growing white as he continues to stare for a couple more seconds before finally nodding back, straightening his fingers and allowing his gaze to drift to Elain. The dismissal is plain and clear for all to see.

Feyre awkwardly clears her throat. “And my other sister, Elain.”

You look straight back down at your feet, too mortified to keep up the “brave” act. The shadowsinger drops your elbow, going right back into his guarded stance. You don’t have the energy to thank him for his help.

Elain gives a small curtsey and then resumes staring off into space.

You notice Eris’s left foot bouncing slightly only because you’re already looking down. His voice has a rasp to it when he finally speaks again. “My, my, the Acheron sisters certainly don’t lack in beauty. Is that why you’ve kept them locked up all this time? Afraid someone’s going to steal them away?”

Again with the nervous laughter. You could cut the tension with a knife. Feyre squeezes Rhysand’s hand. A calming gesture, no doubt. Rhysand only chuckles. “You can never be too careful.”

Eris hums again, changing the subject. “Is that my baby brother I spy back there?” He tsks softly. “Naughty, naughty. Not even going to say hello?”

You force yourself not to turn your head in Lucien’s direction as he steps out of the shadows from behind you. He’d only come as a favor to Rhysand—to show that he was now officially working for the Night Court.

Elain stiffens beside you. She’s never been comfortable around the male even though the two are supposedly mates. Lucien is aware of this judging by how he steers clear of the House of Wind unless it’s to relay information to Rhysand.

You don’t mind him. Yes, you had held a grudge against him at first because he had been a part of that whole scheme with the King of Hybern that got you into this mess in the first place. The night that changed your life forever…a night that still traumatizes you to this day. Once you could stand to be in a room with him without wanting to claw his face off, you learned that he wasn’t so bad. Yes, he’s fiercely loyal to a fault, but that isn’t such a horrible trait when working for the right person. He’s had his fair share of traumas himself, so it all balances out. Of course, he hasn’t shared much of that with you, but sometimes you can just tell.

The resemblance between Lucien and Eris is uncanny now that you know what his older counterpart looks like. Same red hair, same carved jawline, even the same snark on occasion. You often wonder about the shared history between the pair. To grow up under the hand of such a horrible father…

You quickly let the thought fade. You don’t want to feel bad for the male in front of you. If Lucien still turned out to be a decent male, then Eris could’ve too. And so could his other brothers. Eris made the choice not to.

Lucien comes to stand next to Elain, causing her to inch closer to you. He stands his ground, a protective aura radiating off of him that you often observe between Rhysand and Feyre. You know that must hurt—being jaded by your mate like that. Then again, Elain has no reason to let a stranger into her heart.

Lucien greets Eris rather coldly. “Brother.”

The male in question angles his body toward his brother, which means he’s now angled toward you as well. You only know that because of the turn of his heel, which has suddenly stopped bouncing. “How’s the Night Court treating you?” he asks in a disinterested tone.

Lucien grips the dagger strapped to his side. “Better than the Autumn Court ever did.”

Eris’s smile tightens minisculely as he turns back toward Rhysand, as if Lucien is not worthy enough to have his full attention. “You’re welcome back anytime. I’m sure our other brothers would love to see you.”

The words are friendly, but the sudden sharpness of his voice is anything but. Silence permeates the room then. Loud uncomfortable silence that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You wait, and wait, and wait, until Rhysand finally dismisses Eris, signaling that everybody is free to mingle as they wish. Azriel guides you and Elain further up the steps of the dais, conjuring two chairs for you to sit in.

Feyre gives you a nod once you’re seated. Not a “good job,” but more of a “at least you didn’t have a panic attack.” If only she knew how close you’d come to one…

You check that your mental shields are still intact before slumping down into your chair and counting down the minutes until this is over. The glasses of wine being offered around the room catch your eye. You hardly ever drink, too scared of the state it might put you in, but the thought of being completely relaxed for once piques your interest. However, when you see the stiff stances of Azriel and Cassian, always on guard, you’re reminded that you should be on guard too when in a place like this, so you let that fantasy go.

Time ticks by as Fae after Fae comes up to Rhysand and Feyre to greet them, obviously hoping to earn their favor. Few words are exchanged before they’re sent on their way. Some even try to speak to Nesta, Elain, and you, as if that would soften Rhysand and Feyre’s hearts. Nesta looks off to the side each time in disinterest. You and Elain at least nod along and bob your heads when asked if you’re enjoying your new Fae lives.

Your mind grows fuzzy as faces and names blur together, until a glowing giant of a male blocks your view. You blink quickly, leaning back in your seat a bit. Must be another one of those High Faes. The male only smiles at your reaction, scanning the group in front of him before bowing his head toward Rhysand and Feyre.

Rhysand’s polite smile lifts into a real one. He shakes the male’s hand with vigor, the sound of their two hands meeting echoing through the room like a firecracker. You sit in silence, watching the exchange with cautious interest.

“Helion,” Rhysand greets enthusiastically. “Nice of you to come. How’s the Day Court faring?”

Your ears prick up at the mention of another court. The various courts get so jumbled in your head. Is he…

“Very lively, as always.” He turns back toward Nesta, Elain, and you, shooting you three a pearly white smile. “I’ve yet to meet these lovely ladies. Vanserra is right. They certainly are captivating.”

You find yourself becoming shy under the attention as your face grows hot.

Rhysand nods his head in the male’s direction before looking between Nesta, Elain, and you. “I believe an introduction is in order. Meet Helion. High Lord of the Day Court.”

High Lord? Here? You don’t know why the thought of another High Lord here in the Hewn City—besides Eris—is so baffling. Who would want to visit here? You glance around the room then, trying to see if you spot any other males that look like deities come down to earth. Again, that smidge of orange amongst all the darkness catches your eye. He is just starting to turn in the opposite direction when your eyes land on him.

You briefly forget about the godlike male in front of you for a moment in favor of this malevolent one. He’s talking to some odd-looking Fae. You still haven’t grown used to the sight of some of these creatures down here. They make your skin crawl.

You analyze his laidback stance, his blank expression, the wine goblet clutched in his hands. Tell a painter to paint a male at ease and he would paint what’s in front of you. What could a High Fae like him possibly have to discuss with the inhabitants of this dreary place? How could a man raised up as a wealthy prince and now High Lord relate to the dwellers here who you were told never leave?

He takes another swig, his gaze sweeping the room like a serpent—lazy at first glance but ready to strike within a moment’s notice upon closer look. His eyes pass right over you, finishing his sweep before resuming his conversation.

You only realize you’ve been in a trance when Helion sticks his big hand out in front of you for you to shake. You quickly offer your hand, which he shakes carefully before gently kissing the top of it. The heat comes back in full force, causing you to duck your head bashfully. You’re not used to male attention, let alone attention from a male like him. A High Lord. You don’t even know how to begin to handle it.

A deep chuckle is heard from Helion before he addresses Rhysand and Feyre again. “So, the Vanserra boy…it’ll be very interesting to see how he handles his new position.”

Rhysand hums in agreement, sharing a look with the High Lord of the Day Court. You can guess what it means. Helion has to know what really happened. A male like him hasn’t kept his position for so long by being dim-witted. The only question is does he know of Rhysand’s and the Night Court’s involvement? They both must have much they want to discuss, but nothing can be said here.

Helion lowers his voice. “What do you think about all of this business with his father?”

A pointed question. What is he trying to get at?

A blur of movement steals your attention. There he is again, sticking close to the walls as he walks around the room, almost as if circling his prey—not mingling anymore, just simply watching.

You hear Rhysand’s answer, but it sounds far away, like he’s in another room.

“An unfortunate accident.”

Helion clicks his tongue. “Indeed. I hope he’ll take care of the people left behind.”

You wonder what he means by that, but Rhysand doesn’t respond because Eris is now walking toward him. It’s like he knows he’s being discussed. You dip your head, pretending to be focused on your lap as he makes his way toward the dais, cursing yourself for your cowardice.

Helion steps aside, greeting the male neutrally. “Eris.”

You risk taking a peek up.

Eris nods in acknowledgment just as neutrally before notifying Rhysand and Feyre of his departure. “I’ll take my leave. It’s a long journey back. I trust the celebration can survive without me,” he says rather boredly, as if this whole thing has drained him—you can’t really blame him.

Helion slips back into the crowd gracefully, giving you and your sisters another winning smile before disappearing.

Rhysand waves a hand dismissively. “Leave at your own pace. The people here only wish to party or eavesdrop, no matter who’s attending. Rest assured, you won’t be missed.”

“Noted,” Eris responds, turning to leave.

Unfortunately, your body chooses that inopportune moment to shiver violently. This stupid dress. Azriel’s shadows drift over to you, giving you minor reprieve from the cold.

Just when you think you’re in the clear, Eris slowly turns back around, his stare directed straight at you. The corner of his lip turns upward slightly. “Don’t you people in the Night Court wear any clothes?” he asks smugly as he takes a peek at Nesta and Elain, both just as scantily clothed, before raising an eyebrow at you.

He’s expecting an answer. You spy Feyre gripping the arm of her throne tightly. She obviously wants to put her two cents in. Azriel leans closer as well.

Straightening, you instinctively try to cover the slit going up your thigh. Your gaze travels from left to right, anywhere but him, mind going blank as you blurt out the first explanation that comes to mind. “I didn’t pick it.”

You cringe internally. I didn’t pick it? Really? Sometimes your lack of backbone really annoys you.

The sound of Eris’s snort makes you look back at him. “Clearly. These outfits reek of Morrigan. She’s always loved taking control.”

The frown is quick to appear on your face. First he targets Azriel, now Morrigan? Morrigan has always been nice to you—pushy, yes—but never mean. You know Morrigan and Eris have history, judging by the murderous look she gets in her eyes whenever the male is mentioned, you just don’t know the details. It must be why she didn’t come tonight. Regardless, you're sure Morrigan is in the right.

Rhysand leans forward, spine tall and claws out, obviously not caring if he damages the carefully crafted throne. “Careful, Eris.” The warning is clear and direct.

You sink further into your chair, not liking the threat of violence. Your dread is made worse when Azriel places his hand over Truthteller—a massive sword at his side that’s likely cut down many people. Is this normal? Are they going to fight? Right here in front of everybody?

The thought is so worrisome that you place your hand on Azriel’s forearm. Azriel’s quick to snap his gaze to you, his dark eyes quickly softening. He scans your body, noticing the tightness of your limbs, the feeling of your nails digging into his leathers, the panic that must be written all over your face. His hand slowly slips off the hilt as he shakes his head—a jest. Just precautionary. They aren’t really going to fight.

You sigh in relief, pulling your hand away. When you look toward Eris and Rhysand again, Eris’s attention is already on you, as if he’s been watching your exchange with Azriel this whole time. You swallow uncomfortably, wishing he would just leave.

The male glosses over Rhysand’s not so subtle warning, instead looking at something behind you. “Lucien. Where are your manners? I thought father taught you better than this. Warm the poor girl up.”

You know the intent behind the words comes from a place of cruelty rather than concern. Another jab at his little brother.

Footsteps are heard from behind you. Lucien says nothing when he reaches you, staring down from above you. You shake your head, attempting to politely decline, but the fire appears in his hand before you can stop it. Your body instinctively flinches back from the sudden heat. You know the male has powers, but you’ve never seen them in action.

Lucien is quick to put the flame out, forehead creasing in distress. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

You turn back around, not letting him finish his apology as you try to calm down. Please just let me leave, please just let me leave.

Movement from in front of you pulls your focus. There it is again. That look of disapproval. You know what he must be thinking. Weak. Scaredy-cat. Insignificant.

Eris finally seems to have had enough fun, his foot scraping the floor as he steps back. “I’d recommend more clothes next time,” is all he says before letting the crowd part for him as he makes his way to the exit.

Your breath is shaky as you continue to try to soothe your frayed nerves. There won’t be a next time. You never want to see this place or him ever again. One night is enough to put you off court politics forever. What a messy business.

Fuck…Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not her. Not now.

His hand comes up to loosen his collar as he makes his way out of this wretched place.

She can barely be considered noble. She’d be nothing but a stain on the Vanserra name. What a waste…

He can feel the thread that now connects them trying to pull him back. It’s taunting him. Well, it’s shit out of luck. Years of self discipline has prepared him for this moment. He rolls his shoulders back restlessly.

She’s from the Night Court—no, from the Mortal Lands. Even worse. It couldn’t have chosen someone from his own court, could it? Someone who knows how this world works.

He flexes his hands, trying to shake off the rage now consuming him.

What a twisted fucking joke. Rhysand’s sister in law. He couldn’t have picked a worse match if he tried. At least he’s not the only one, what with Lucien and that dead-eyed girl…

Gods, she’s not even pleasing to look at. So weak. She could hardly look at him. She’s probably never even held a weapon in her hands. And that dress…what a horrible choice. It looked like it was wearing her, not the other way around.

Fuck! His head pounds as he tries to concentrate on anything but that damn pulse now reverberating in his head and throughout his body, pulling more incessantly. Fuck that. It can pull all it wants, he’s not turning back around.

He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. It’ll be fine. He’ll never have to see her again. Let her go back to her little cage in that glorified bachelor pad of Rhysand’s. Prick.

His rage simmers as he remembers the look on Rhysand’s face. Serves him right. Morrigan can keep her secrets, but they both know the truth.

He resists the urge to slam his fist against the wall, trying to navigate the cramped corridors of this goddamn maze of a city—if it can even be called that. If only they knew what Rhysand is keeping from them in Velaris…

He eyes the walls warily. There are eyes and ears everywhere. Not here. Wait until you're home. Safe…at least the concept of safe. Who is he kidding? Nowhere is safe. Not with his brothers lurking around every corner. Not with the guards trying to vie for power of their own. Not with the citizens of the Autumn Court just waiting for him to make a mistake.

The rage builds again. He takes another breath. Remember who you are. Remember what you’ve done to get to this place. Don’t screw it up because of one measly little girl. She’s nothing. No one to you. Just a High Lady’s little sister…and that’s all she’ll ever be.

#eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra #acotar x reader #acotar imagine #eris vanserra imagine #eris vanserra fanfic #eris vanserra fic

enchantedfairys-world

Mar 28

Drunk in love, part 13 {final part}

Azriel x Archeron!reader

Summary: Azriel and reader go all the way.

Word count: 16.7K

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12

Warnings: Smut 🫢

It’s finally here! Sorry for the three month wait. Work has been kicking my butt and I had soooo much trouble writing this part. It’s still not perfect to me, but I’ve been writing everyday this week trying to finish it and I’m sick of editing. Excuse the drop in quality, but I’ve got to post it before I lose my mind. I’ll tweak it more later on if I have to. Thank you so much to everyone who’s supported this story! I genuinely got emotional writing the ending of this. I don’t know if I would’ve finished it if I hadn’t been motivated by all the comments and love. You guys rock 🫶

The next day, he wakes up to find you still asleep in his arms in the same position you fell asleep in. He takes the chance to admire you in your peaceful state while you’re still unconscious. There’s no worry lines or creases on your face, no stiffness in your body. You're completely at ease—just the way he likes you.

He cuddles into you a bit more, tucking his wings around you tightly. His mate. It sounds unreal, but it’s true. You’re completely and utterly his now. His to cherish, his to protect, his to spoil. The spoiling has already begun. He’s come up with the perfect birthday gift for you—your own home library. His mission today is to seek out a builder that can construct the library based on the drawings he plans to mock up. It’ll have to be done while you’re at work to avoid ruining the surprise.

He thought about waiting to make this lavish purchase until they moved into a bigger, better house, but he can always have another one built if need be, and you really seemed to like this house. Unfortunately, he’s not going to be able to hide the building process from you because, well…he’s planning on having the library be an entire new addition to the house. It will likely take weeks to construct, but he knows how much you love your books, and he’s come to develop a love for them too, to his surprise. He knows it’s the right decision.

His fingers reach up to scratch your scalp gently like it’s second nature, which causes your eyes to flutter open. Peering down at you, he studies your precious face as you yawn and stretch in his arms like a cat disturbed from its nap. Once you've finally finished the dramatic routine, you place your head on his bicep, blinking slowly as you stare up at him.

He can’t help but stare back, moving to rub your cheek with his free hand. “Hi,” he greets softly, his voice raspy from having just woken up.

You continue to make eye contact with him, which causes his body to warm in a delightful way. He only feels that sensation around you.

“Hi,” you greet back with a little smile that has his heart pounding just a little too fast.

He returns the smile with ease and leans down to kiss you. The kiss is slow and gentle, just the way he likes them. He feels you trace the lines of his scars as you reciprocate it. While the kiss is still going, you wrap your arm around his neck, starting to push your body weight on top of him. He lets you, grabbing a hold of your waist to help you maneuver onto your rightful resting place.

Your lips linger on his for a moment longer before you rest your head on his chest. He feels like a human pillow with the way you’re sprawled on top of him. It reminds him of all the times you've drunkenly scaled up his body —if you exclude the embarrassment that always came the morning after.

“Comfortable?” he mumbles, his chest rumbling with the barest hint of laughter.

You nod against him and place a kiss on his shoulder. The action sends butterflies straight to his stomach. He welcomes the feeling as he lightly searches for the bit of his bond that connects to yours. Your acceptance of the bond must’ve shifted something in their delicate connection because he noticed something different last night. He found that if he focused on your part of the bond, he could sort of sense of how you were feeling. It wasn’t always clear, but it was there. Searching now, all he feels is hints of contentment and sleepiness pressing up against him like a force field.

“I don’t want to go to work today,” you complain as you smush your face deeper into his chest.

He lifts your chin to get you to focus on him, all the while still tapped into your emotions. “Then don’t.” Stay here. With me.

Curiosity starts to trickle into the pool of contentment and sleepiness before it quickly disperses.

You smirk and plant a kiss on his cheek. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

He nods lazily. “I would. Very much.”

Another kiss is planted on his cheek before you whisk yourself away to get ready for work. His eyes trail after you as he watches you walk into your closet to change. You come out wearing your usual work attire. His steady gaze never leaves you as you come to sit on the bed so that you can lace up your boots.

“Can we skip training today?” you ask as you fiddle with the laces.

“Why?” he responds absentmindedly from his side of the bed.

You shrug nonchalantly, but he’s quick to spot the tightness in your shoulders as you answer him. “Because I want to spend time with you,” you say with your back still turned to him.

His heart flutters at those words, but he attempts to stay nonchalant. “Training involves spending time with me.”

You audibly sigh and then turn around. “I want to spend time with you alone,” you emphasize.

He smirks internally, feeling a quiet confidence fill him. You want to spend time with him. Just him. He takes the chance to study your emotions again before he replies, making sure to go about it carefully because he’s still unsure whether or not you can feel him prying. Satisfied with what he senses, he attempts to respond neutrally. “Okay. We can do that.”

You finish lacing up your boots and come around to his side. For a moment, everything is silent as he stares up at you and you stare down at him. The staring contest feels so intense that he has to struggle not to look away. You break first, leaning down to give him a quick peck on the lips. “I’ll see you tonight,” you say as your hands linger on him, almost as if you don’t want to let go.

He gives your hand a quick peck in return. “See you tonight,” he agrees.

You give him one last weighted look before easing out of the room. He settles back against the headboard, giving himself a moment to calm his beating heart. That felt different—more charged. Intimate encounters always feel more charged with you because of how much he has to work for them, but something about that last look struck a chord in him.

It’s a chord that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. A chord that usually causes him to have to make up some kind of excuse so he can go somewhere and take care of his body’s betrayal with his own hands—but not today. He has important duties to tend to.

Finally dragging his body out of bed, he forces himself to pick up a pencil and paper so he can sketch out his plan for the library. It’s all mapped out in his head, he just has to get his vision onto paper. He spends at least an hour sketching it out, adding in new details every so often whenever another idea pops into his head.

When he’s satisfied with the drawing, he takes it down to a builder in the city—a burly Fae who Rhysand plans to use whenever he and Feyre finally construct their new house down by the river. The Fae adds a few more details and changes, some for practicality and some only a builder like him would think to add. By the time they're done, they have an agreement drawn up and a depiction of a truly magnificent home library.

He practically skips out of the shop, stopping at the market to buy the ingredients for a cake. Yes, he plans to make you your very own birthday cake. Since he didn’t have a chance to make your actual birthday as special as he would’ve liked it to be, he’s taking the chance to do it now.

The process is time consuming, but he’s seen you bake enough cakes by now to know what to do. Still, it’s not easy. He probably spends twice as long to bake it and decorate it as you would’ve. The decorations aren’t fancy, only consisting of a layer of chocolate frosting and the words “Happy Birthday Y/N” written on top of it in his sloppy handwriting. It’ll have to do.

You arrive home looking tired but content. He quickly steps in front of the cake to block your view of it.

You drop your bag on the floor, trying to peer around his broad shoulders. “What are you hiding back there?” you pry curiously.

He playfully pushes you back, handing you the builder’s business card.

You flip it over from front to back, analyzing it in confusion. “Eowen’s Crafts & Builds,” you read aloud. “Specializing in home builds and decor. Located on the upper east side of the Sidra River.”

He smiles deviously as he waits for your reaction.

You raise an eyebrow, handing him back the card. “What’s this for? Are you planning on building yourself a home?” you ask. Your tone is nonchalant, but he can see the sudden apprehension in your body language. He knows what you’re thinking. Is he planning on moving out?

He shakes his head quickly, pained that you still think he would do something like that to you. You’ll never learn. “Nope. This is your birthday gift.”

You glance down at the card in his hand again, the gears in your head still turning. “Are you building me a house?” you guess hesitantly.

He shakes his head again. “Not quite. I’m making an improvement,” he explains. “To this house.”

You suddenly scan the house, searching for an area that needs upgrading. When you find nothing of note, you turn back to him. “But this house is fine as it is. It doesn’t need any improvements.”

He clicks his tongue, pulling you in by the hips. Of course you would say that. You’ve never been one to crave luxury. Your mind never wanders to what could be. “Really? Not even something you’d really enjoy using? Somewhere you’d spend a lot of time at?”

You tilt your head in the most adorable way, playing with his shirt absentmindedly. “I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

His smirk is on full display as he leans in, coming to whisper in your ear. “How would you like your very own home library?”

Your hands tighten on his shirt. He leans back to observe your expression. Your eyes suddenly teary and he hears you let out the slightest of sniffles. His heart stops for a moment, thinking he’s made some huge mistake, before he spots your smile. Oh. Those are happy tears. You try to speak, but your voice seems temporarily lost. He pulls you in for a tight hug.

You cling to him fiercely, digging your face into his chest. He lets you dirty up his shirt with your tears for a long while, relieved to know that you liked the gift.

You pull back suddenly, seemingly gaining your speech back as you shoot rapid questions at him. “But where is it going to go? There’s nowhere to put it. Are you getting rid of the guest room?”

He shakes his head quickly. “No, the guest room stays. I’m making it an addition to the house…if that’s okay with you,” he checks, needing reassurance that you’re okay with him making such a drastic change. He would’ve asked beforehand, but he hadn’t wanted to spoil the surprise.

You nod excitedly, almost jumping up and down. He laps up your happiness eagerly, discussing all the plans he has in store for the library. You listen attentively until a small pout starts to form on your face.

He dips his head, attempting to get you to meet his gaze. “What is it?”

You peer up at him, your tone suspicious now. “How much are you planning on spending?”

The urge to scoff is strong. He knows your antics by now. You don’t

like him spending money on you. Yes, he can admit that this will cost a sizable amount, but it’s not like he lacks the funds for it. Besides, he’s always willing to spend money whenever you’re involved.

He cups your face gently, but his words are stern. “We’re mates now. My money is your money—and I have plenty to share. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Your eyes flicker with some emotion he can’t quite place when he utters the word “mates.” You don’t rebuke his words, simply softening in his hold and trailing your fingers down his arm to lace your hand with his. That’s new.

Quickly looking for a way to fill the unnatural silence, he steps aside to show you his less than average-looking cake. Your pout lifts to a proud smile just as suddenly as it had gone. You skip to the cake, pulling him along with you. He observes as your eyes scan the mediocre sweet before you turn back to him.

“You did this?” you inquire with a note of surprise in your voice.

He nods. “Don’t look so shocked. I learned from the best.”

You place a hand over your heart, appearing as if you’re going to cry again.

He immediately swoops in before another tear can slip out. “Let me get you a slice.”

“Wait,” you say, holding up a hand before he can cut you a piece.

He puts down the knife he had picked up, watching you expectantly.

You back out of the room with a sneaky smile. “It’s time for your present now.”

Right. He almost forgot about the Winter Solstice present you had promised him.

He waits in the kitchen, hearing you rummaging around in your room before you come out with a shoebox in your hands. His brows raise. “You got me shoes?” He’s not complaining, but you had made your gift sound so interesting last night.

You wave a hand, plopping the box down on the counter. “Oh, no. I just needed something to put it in. Go ahead and open it.”

He keeps one eye on you as he starts opening it. You watch his every expression as your hands cling on to the counter for some kind of support. Easing the top off, he sees what looks like a bunch of random scraps of paper and junk…until he looks closer.

He picks up one of the pieces of paper. It’s a receipt for one of the many cookies he’s gotten you from the bakery. He picks up another. This one is a recipe for the strawberry shortcake you made for the Winter Solstice party—the one he loves so much.

A flash of color is spotted at the very bottom of the box. It’s one of the flowers plucked from outside a restaurant he likes to take you to by the river. There’s a book page in there too. It’s from the book he was reading when they had their first reading session together. These aren’t just random pieces of junk. They’re memories. A lot of them.

There’s a faint glistening in his eyes as he peers back up at you. You shift from foot to foot as you silently wait for his reaction. This is the most heartwarming gift he’s received in a long time. It’s a physical reminder of all the fun times and special moments you two have shared together. It’s better than money, or accessories, or any other expensive gift you could have gotten him. It’s real.

“It’s a memento box,” you explain, launching into a hurried speech. “You can add to it if you want. I hope you like it. I didn’t know what else to get you. You’re so mysterious—“

He cuts off your rambling with a sweet kiss to your lips. It’s soft and delicate at first, but quickly grows more intense, moving into sensual territory. You don’t seem to mind judging by how enthusiastically you kiss him back. He lets you continue the kiss until he gets to his breaking point—the point where he’d pin you down to the floor if he doesn’t stop.

His lips leave yours reluctantly. The pout is back on your lips. It’s almost enough to break his resistance. He gives your cheeks a playful squeeze before throwing the business card in the box and guiding you back to the cake. “Don’t pout. Not when there’s cake to be had.”

You light up when he reminds you about the cake. He cuts the both of you a slice, praying to the Gods that it tastes edible. You shove a big slice into your mouth—a dangerous move if you ask him. He watches you chew it slowly, waiting for the verdict.

“Good?” he asks hesitantly.

You nod. “Amazing!”

He takes a bite of his own slice, chewing slowly. Not half bad. He enjoys a few more bites before leading you to the couch. You plop down next to him, assuming your go-to position by resting your head on his chest. He massages your scalp out of habit as you both sit and talk about your day. You trace the scars on his hands—a new favorite tick of yours, it seems. Time passes by quickly, unfortunately, no matter how much he wishes he could stop it in its tracks. Before he knows it, he’s carrying you to bed.

You snuggle up to him, practically using him as your own personal teddy bear. He allows it because he secretly likes it. You give him a quick kiss—your way of saying goodnight—before letting your lips lower to give him a second peck on the neck. It’s an innocent act and feels slightly ticklish if he’s being honest. But then you do it again, allowing your lips to linger this time. And then again on the other side of his neck.

He grabs your chin, giving you a questioning look when you meet his stare. You don’t say anything, but a hint of a flush is visible on your cheeks. It’s not as severe as it usually is, but it’s there. He waits for you to do something, too scared to check how you’re feeling. Are you wanting to take things further?

You study him for a little bit longer before going back to snuggling against him, hiding your face in his chest for good measure. He forces himself to breathe, wrapping his wings around your form delicately. That was weird.

The next day passes by…and the next day and the next day. As time passes, he feels like he’s in a neverending dream—the type you don’t want to wake up from. Being with you is easy, just as he had imagined it would be. When you’re both not working or training, he makes sure to spend all of his time with you, and he considers it time well spent. They bake, they laugh, they play board games, they kiss. There’s been much more of the latter as of late…

In fact, you’ve been much more touchy with him, not that he's complaining. When you’re together in the evenings, your new routine is to curl up on his lap. Luckily he’s learned how to control his bodily reactions when you do that. Your hands always seem to find a way to make contact with him, whether it’s resting a hand on his arm, or clasping your hand with his, or running your fingers through his hair. He never fusses because he loves when you touch him.

With those touches come a certain energy, though. It’s hard to describe, and he sometimes feels as though he’s imagining it. You’ve been looking at him differently lately. He sees it when you think he’s not paying attention. You tilt your head and stare. Not in a confused way, but almost watchful. He doesn’t know what to think of it, having never been one to hold people’s attention.

He’s always in the shadows, watching from afar. To have someone see him—truly see him—and not look away in fear or disgust is a feat in itself. He’s still not adjusted to it. It unnerves him to a degree he’s not used to. Your shy glances have become so familiar to him that this new directness finds him off-kilter.

As weeks of mated life pass, the stares don’t stop. He never mentions it, nor does he do anything about it. He’s come to think of it as your idea of psyching yourself up. It’s likely a way to get yourself comfortable with all the facets of mated life. You’re both aware of it, no matter how much you try to ignore it. The closeness, the shared space, the tension. Gods, is the tension high. He’s always conscious of it, but bringing attention to it would do you no good. So, he lets you continue building your confidence slowly but surely, whether that’s letting you touch him while he stays still like a good little mate or allowing you to kiss him until his lips are swollen.

Every single time without fail, he wants to drag you into the bedroom and show you how he really feels about your newfound openness. He’s never had to wait for anyone like this before. Anytime he’s needed to let off some steam in the past, he could always count on finding a random Fae in a shady club to go home with. It’s not like he exhausted that option often, but the thought used to comfort him. Now, knowing he has to wait on someone to feel comfortable proves to be quite difficult.

The itch is under his skin constantly—that urge to pin your wrists to the bed and pleasure you until you’re a whimpering mess. He’s always watching for a change in your demeanor, just waiting for the okay from you. His body never leaves autopilot, ready to go the second you give your approval. But he has to stay calm and steady, like the mate he’s supposed to be. That doesn’t mean the itch under his skin isn’t begging to be scratched. He feels downright animalistic at times. Thank the gods you can’t hear his thoughts…

Fortunately, his bundled up energy can be somewhat tempered by your sweet touches and smiles. They never get old. One look at your precious face and he feels calm. Okay, maybe not calm, but calmer.

So, more time passes, but he’s content to pass that time with you in whatever way you wish, even if that means having to fight with the animal inside him.

Currently, your wish is to spend time curled up in his lap, so that’s exactly where you are.

They’ve been sitting here for a while. You’ve been running your hand up and down his arm in a way that probably has no effect on you, but has every effect on him. He leans down for a small kiss to staunch his urges. You reciprocate the kiss, but your old behaviors are noticed almost instantly. He feels you shaking the slightest bit. Having grown so used to your openness, that slightest hint of hesitance from you seems foreign. Wrong, even.

He wrenches back immediately, straightening you on his lap so that you’re straddling him face to face. “What’s wrong?” he whispers worriedly, hurriedly placing his hands on your face in hopes to soothe you.

You suck in a shaky breath, your hands going over his as if a magnet pulled them there. “I want to—can we—“ you pause, creasing your brow harshly as you focus on your lap.

He waits for you to spit your thoughts out, but you continue to stutter and squeeze his hands hard. “What is it?” he presses, needing to know why you’re acting so erratic so he can find a solution.

You squeeze your eyes shut, apparently needing to obscure him from your view to be able to speak straight. “Can we—“ you pause again, but manage to straighten in his lap, forcing your words out as firmly as you can. “I think…I think I’m ready.”

He stills, not quite knowing if he’s interpreting your words correctly. Zeroing out for a moment, he remembers he can access your emotions. He calms his mind, focusing on the bond. Immediately he’s hit with a deep-seated burst of anxiety that has his gut twisting as if it’s his own emotion. It almost has him lurching away. But underneath it all, deep deep down, there’s hints of curiosity, and trust, and…lust?

He swallows, perturbed by the dizzying array of emotions he just witnessed. What a mess you are. He senses his body start to come out of autopilot, but he has to make sure you can handle this. This is not a decision you make with haste. His hands lower from your face, choosing to envelope your hands instead. “Ready as in ready to go all the way?” he asks slowly, feeling his throat close up as he speaks.

Your eyes flutter open almost supernaturally fast at the question. You shift a bit in his lap, staring at him cautiously. It’s one of those stares that makes him feel as though he’s being dissected and laid out on a table for you to study. You have this odd way of putting his body in fight or flight mode. He swallows again, licking his lips for good measure.

Finally, you nod slowly, though by the way you're chewing on your lip, he has a good idea of the nerves you must be experiencing right now.

He leans forward, not wanting to press further, but knowing he has to. “You think you’re ready or you know you’re ready?”

Again, he notices that slight shiver run through your body, but you answer him with as much bravery as you can muster. “I know,” you say quietly.

He’s ready to go. Now. He can already feel his body revving up, but he’s still not sure if he’s convinced you’re prepared for this. As much as he wants this, he knows he can’t do anything until he’s absolutely certain you’re okay with it. Pressing his forehead against yours gently, he continues digging deeper. “You have to be sure, Y/N. You have to want it. We can wait. You don’t have to force yourself.”

You close your eyes again, your voice still quiet. Meek, even. “I’m sure. I’m just…a little anxious.”

A little is sugarcoating it. He kisses your cheek, forcing himself to stay seated. “And you're sure you want to do this right now? It can be another day. Tomorrow. The next day. Whenever you want to do it. This is on your terms.”

You nod in acknowledgment, but you’re so jittery that he has to resist the urge to hold you down. “I’m ready now, I’m just nervous,” you repeat almost impatiently.

He nods back in understanding. I’m ready. The words roll around in his mind, playing on a loop. He checks your emotions one more time. The nerves are still there, but the lust has grown stronger. It spurs him into action. He picks you up by your thighs, signaling for you to wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to your bedroom. It takes effort not to break out into a jog.

Once in the bedroom, he carefully plants you on your feet, letting you slide down his body. You straighten, standing there cluelessly. It’s endearing, but he knows you're probably chiding yourself right now for your lack of experience.

He grabs your chin, wanting your full attention. It is of utmost importance that you heed his instructions. “Listen to me. If anything is too much for you, you can stop me at any point. Just say stop and I will. Understand?”

You nod in reply. He shakes his head. Now is not the time to mince words. “Don’t give me a nod, I want a yes.”

Your brows raise, obviously taken aback by his sudden dominant behavior, but you manage to voice your understanding without your voice shaking.

He nods in approval. “Good,” he mumbles as he leans down to kiss you.

You kiss back hesitantly, seemingly letting him take full control. He’ll have to remedy that at some point, but for now he’ll take the lead. He drags the kiss out, showing no signs of stopping because he knows from past experience that this is the easiest way to calm you down. There’s no tugging of clothes or rubbing of body parts because that would only serve to heighten your anxiety at this point.

His shadows swirl around the both of you as he kisses you with a fervor he wasn’t aware he was capable of. It takes minutes—he knows because he counts them in his head—but your hands eventually still and your breath slows. He gives you one last smooch before studying you.

You lick your lips, but make no other movements. He bites back a groan, tugging you against his chest to lean down near your ear. “I’m going to make you feel good, okay? Really good. You’re going to have a good time. It’s just me. Just you and me,” he finishes, trying to drill into your head that this experience is supposed to be fun and invigorating, not scary and nervewracking.

“Is my nervousness that obvious?” you ask timidly, though he can tell you're trying to bring a bit of humor to the situation.

“Mmmhmm,” he mutters, not able to resist flicking his tongue out to lick a line along the curved point of your ear as he leans up.

You jolt in his arms, attempting to square your surprised expression away before he can catch a glimpse of it.

He chuckles quietly, attempting to keep the atmosphere light. He feels hot. The need to rip his clothes off is strong, but they aren’t at that point yet. “But that’s alright,” he continues. “You’re in good hands.”

You nod as if trying to reassure yourself.

He licks his lips, snaking his hands up your waist. You allow him to do as he pleases, only watching him attentively. He grabs a fistful of your dress, looking back and forth between you and the garment, silently asking for your permission. You grab onto his hands before he gets a chance to lift the fabric up.

He gives you an apologetic smile, quickly dropping the fabric. Easy. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you first.”

He waits for you to let go of him, but you don’t. Instead, you start to chew on your lip aggressively, looking like a deer with an arrow trained on it. He sighs to himself, backing up slowly. A change of plans, then. His hand finds the zipper of his own leathers, gradually inching it down.

Pulling his arms out from his sleeves, he lets gravity do the work, allowing the upper half of his leathers to hang down, while leaving the lower half on.

Glancing up, his body heats up even more when he notices that you're staring directly at his toned abs. The sight would be comical any other time, but right now all he feels is need and want.

Chastising himself for his weakness, he grabs your hand and places it on his chest against his better judgement. The second your warm hand makes contact with his skin, his body tingles reactively. How quickly he inches into that warm heat. A startled puff of breath hits his bare chest, chipping away at his already crumbling willpower, but he stays still for you. “Is this okay?” he questions.

You nod faintly, keeping your hand where it is. Again, your stiffness would be comical if he wasn’t so turned on. He places his hand over yours, gently guiding it to roam over his chest. You seem mesmerized by the motion. He focuses on the glide of your skin against his, planting himself to the floor.

Without instruction, you lower your hand to his arm, starting to trace your fingers over the lines of tattoos that run along it. He shivers involuntarily at the sensation. Stay calm. You touch him as if this is a normal everyday occurrence.

It doesn’t take very long before he becomes antsy, so while you’re focused on following the lines of ink on his skin, he takes the chance to touch you back. He’s drawn to the marker of their deal, just as you're drawn to his tattoos.

Your skin is soft as he explores it. You only glance up at him before letting him continue. He takes that as a good sign. That’s it. Take down those walls of yours.

When he feels like you’ve explored enough of his upper body, he moves to unzip the bottom half of his leathers. “Are you okay with me taking the rest of this off?” he checks, already having learned his lesson from the first time.

You swallow audibly, seemingly already discombobulated by just his upper half, but mumble your consent. He gives you an encouraging smile, suddenly apprehensive to let you see all of him. It’s not like he’s never been bare in front of a woman before, but this is you—someone who’s likely never seen a man naked before and whose gaze feels like sitting too close to a fire.

The drag of his leathers against his skin is the only sound that’s heard as he tugs them down, along with his boots. Your sharp eye contact is seen out of the corner of his eyes as he finally gets them off, leaving him clad in tight boxers only. Gods, is it hot in here or is he just overheating?

He forces himself not to cover his prominent arousal, allowing you to see how you affect him. You are the reason he is like this, after all. Your face flushes quickly, and then you start to avert your gaze. As much as he wants to let you collect yourself, now is not the time to let you hide away. He captures your face in his hands before you can get too far. “It’s just me,” he reminds you, attempting to keep the shaking of his hands to a minimum as he tilts your head down so you can see it for yourself.

Your mouth falls open involuntarily. He wants to shy away, but this is for your own good. Besides, the look in your eyes is worth the slight embarrassment. It’s not very surprising when you snap your gaze back up to him, almost as if asking for his help. He takes pity on you and moves to kiss you before you can get yourself in a tizzy again. You melt into the kiss, happily using it as a distraction.

His hands roam your body, but not inappropriately, only allowing himself to touch your neck, hips, and face. It’s a struggle, but he knows it will keep you in a relaxed state if he only touches these parts for now. They slowly sink into a nice rhythm the longer the kiss goes on. You even start to bravely roam your hands over his body as well, though you don’t dare go below his waistline.

He pushes you back, feeling his body ignite again. Don’t lose sight of yourself. Shaking his head to rid himself of unwanted thoughts, he gestures toward your dress. “Do you want me to take this off now?” he whispers.

You clutch your dress protectively, already breathing heavily again as if he never calmed you down.

He backs away, regretting asking. “Hey, it’s okay—“

“Close your eyes,” you instruct through shaky breaths.

He blinks slowly in confusion, but obeys your words. He’s doing things your way tonight.

Soon, the rustling of your dress is heard. Gods be good. He waits patiently, resisting the urge to pace back and forth to get rid of this restless feeling settling in him. His ears pick up on the sound of your footsteps coming toward him. He listens as the sound gets closer and closer until you’re right in front of him.

You tap his arm. “You can open them,” you mumble.

He hesitates for a second, utterly unprepared to see what he’s about to see, but the craving is too strong. He blinks his eyes open, automatically taking the chance to glance down at your body even though he tries not to. You’re covering your chest and nether regions with your arms, even though you still have your undergarments on. He doesn’t comment on it, only admiring the subtle muscle you’ve gained from training.

“Don’t stare,” you scold.

He lifts his gaze lazily, letting a smirk peek through. You’ve turned on a switch that he doesn’t know if he can turn it off—and simultaneously turned off his filter. “You want me to kiss you instead?” he replies teasingly.

That flush he loves comes rushing back at those words. He finds it amusing, but he’s not in a laughing mood. You stay in place, still covering yourself up. He just can’t help himself. He prowls forward, cornering you as he dips his head and plants a small kiss on your neck. You shiver against him, but stand your ground. Good.

He continues planting small kisses, stopping every once in a while to check if you’re okay. When you don’t make any move to stop him, he amps up his advances, starting to suck and lick at various spots on your neck.

You grab his arm almost instinctively. He stops, fighting through the haziness overtaking his mind as he hovers his lips over your skin. “This okay?”

You keep your hand in place a little longer before carefully removing it, nodding against him. That nod is all the permission he needs. He continues marking up your neck like a man starved. Little breaths escape you, but that’s the only sound you allow to slip out. He stills, focusing on your pulse. It’s beating rapidly. Another shaky breath hits the side of his face. It’s a struggle not to devour you on the spot.

He wraps his wings around you, bringing you closer to him to initiate another attack on your neck, but he falters when your fingers come up to lightly trace his jaw. It’s a struggle to clear his head, and his efforts are completely lost when he meets your stare. The first words he thinks of come tumbling out. “You’re so pretty.”

You pause your tracing for a moment, studying him while you think of a response. He’s proud of the next words that come out of your mouth. “So are you.”

He doesn’t expect the compliment. It breaks him out of his trance for a moment. “You think I’m pretty?”

You smile slightly. “Mmhmm.”

The smirk is back on his face before he can stop it. So this is what you’re like when you don’t mince your words. He could get used to this. “Not handsome? Dashing?” he teases.

You shake your head, your expression serious. “No. Pretty. Any girl would be envious of your looks.”

“Hmm. Noted.” He runs a finger down your throat.

You swallow again, dipping your head. It amazes him how quickly you can go from confident to timid all in the span of a couple seconds. He kisses both your cheeks before pulling back, curiosity seeping into the edges of his thoughts. “Do you think you’re pretty?”

You fidget under his stare, obviously not expecting that question. Your gaze goes to the floor as you wrack your brain for an answer. “I guess.”

He notes the lack of conviction in your voice and tilts your head up. “You guess? Then why are you covering yourself up?”

You glance down at your body, regarding it carefully. “I don’t know. I—I’m not used to anyone seeing my body like this,” you explain.

He nods understandingly. It made sense. He asked the most logical next question. “Do you care if I see it?”

You suck in a breath, backing up a little.

He moves forward, going back to sucking and kissing your neck to assuage your nerves. “Relax,” he commands gently between kisses. It’s like a game of cat and mouse with you. Every time something like this happens, he has to coax you out of your shell, constantly switching back and forth between the confident lover he wanted to be and the gentle protector you needed. It’s difficult, but luckily he’s learned all your tells.

You untense slowly but surely under his advances, reaching out to touch his chest again. He smiles against your skin when he notices you do this without guidance, but makes no move to touch you back, respectfully keeping his hands at his sides.

You seem content to stand there while he peppers your neck and jaw with kisses, so he continues to do so, working himself up all the while. His resistance is just starting to fray when you step back. His eyes shoot to you, analyzing your body language for any warning signs. You simply stand there, saying nothing. He waits for you to fill the awkward silence, but you don’t. You're waiting for him to make the next move. Chewing on his cheek, he finally breaks the silence. “Are you ready for more?”

Your eyes flash with renewed panic, but he recognizes the curiosity that’s been lingering underneath the surface for quite some time now. You want this, even if you're nervous. You stand your ground, giving him a nod. His brave mate. He rubs your hips, lingering on the waistband of your underwear. “Ready to take these off?”

Your head angles to look down at where his hands rest. The clench of your jaw gives away your hesitance, but you nod anyway. He knows this is hard for you. Once again, he feels the need to go first. His hands move to his own waistband, attempting to buck up the courage he’ll need to be completely bare in front of you. “I guess I should go first, huh?”

“Yes,” you mutter quickly in agreement.

He glances away, psyching himself up for what’s to come. Your eyes never leave his hands as if you’ve been anticipating this very moment since they began. He’s not used to an audience when he undresses. Your attention feels like hot coals. Tucking his fingers into his waistband, he sends one final prayer to the gods for confidence before yanking down his briefs in one quick motion.

He kicks them to the side, too afraid to look up in fear of seeing your reaction, but he knows he has to. Easing his head up, he finds you covering your mouth in…disgust? Shock? He can’t tell. Do you think he looks bad? Is he not up to your standards? He’s never had any complaints before. Maybe he should cover himself. You’re looking straight down at his appendage as if he’s suddenly grown a third leg.

He’s on the verge of begging you to look away when you finally speak. “That won’t fit.”

His eyes widen, glancing between you and the body part in question. You can’t just say things like that. He can admit he’s bigger than average if wingspan has anything to do with it—and he’s proud to acknowledge that his wingspan is by far the largest out of both Cassian and Rhysand—but he’s sure that his size won’t be a problem.

He clicks his tongue. “Sure it will. We just have to get you nice and relaxed. It’ll feel good, I promise.”

You don’t look too convinced judging by the expression of horror that has yet to leave your face. He steps forward, coming to grab your hips again. Time to be the gentle protector again. “Y/N, do you think I would let you do this if I thought it wouldn’t be good for you?”

You shake your head. “No, but it’s so big—“

He cuts you off, feeling his cheeks redden. The bond lurches forward, wanting him to get the ball rolling so he can end both of their suffering, but he ignores it. “You’re going to be fine. I know what I’m doing. Okay?”

Your head bobs up and down, but he knows you’re not reassured. He repeats himself. “You’re going to be fine. Are you ready to finish undressing?”

You finally break your fixation with his lower half long enough to mutter a small yes, though he doesn’t have to check your emotions this time to know that your heart is likely beating out of your chest. He steps back and covers his eyes with his hands—a childish gesture, but one he knows you’ll appreciate. There’s silence as he hears you peel off your undergarments. He tries to ignore the stirring of his lower half, hoping you’re too preoccupied with undressing to notice it.

The anticipation is killing him. He feels like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. A tap on his arm lets him know that it’s okay to uncover his eyes. He lowers his hands slowly only to be greeted with the sight of you covering yourself once more. It pains him to see you so uncomfortable with your own body.

He shuffles to you, but pauses when your breath picks up at a rate that worries him. The confident lover in him immediately hides away, warning the gentle protector to be on high alert. When your breath doesn’t let up, his feet move before he can stop them.

He gathers you up in his arms, bringing you to straddle his lap while he sits on the edge of your bed. Your eyes are wide as your hips lift to get away from his. He cups your face between his hands, trying to steady your movements. “These—“ he gestures between your and his bare bodies, “—are just bodies. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Your struggles don’t let up as you push away from him, so he does what feels most natural, placing your hand on his chest right over his heart. “Feel that? Feel how fast my heart is beating? I’m nervous too. It’s not just you. We can calm each other down. Does that sound okay?”

You zero in on his heart, seeming to focus in on that and only that. While you're distracted, he attempts to feed calming thoughts down the bond. If you notice, you don’t say anything, though you seem to soften in his hold a little. He keeps a hand on your waist to steady you while you keep gingerly touching his chest as if he’s made of glass. His lower half jumps at the contact to his dismay. He ignores his stubborn body, slowly lowering you down to rest on his thighs, so that your lower halves can have some much needed distance.

Still, that doesn’t sway you from peeking down at his manhood every few minutes. It both turns him on and makes him self conscious. They continue this little encounter until you look down at it for a fifth time, which is right about when he decides that now would be a good time to touch you back. His hands drag from your hips to your stomach, trailing over your skin lightly. Your stomach muscles clench under the contact. “Is this alright?” he asks gruffly, not taking his hand away.

You nod the slightest bit, watching his hands trail up, up, up…until they are

right below your breasts. He keeps them there, wondering if you want him to touch you there. It’s not like he can count on you to speak up. Glancing up to check your expression, you give no indication as to whether or not you like this. The silence is starting to unnerve him. He resists the urge to bounce his leg, waiting to see if you’ll give him permission.

He almost pulls his hands away until you lean into his touch the slightest bit. Interesting. He takes that as a sign to continue his advances, working his way up to the underside of your breasts. You let out a small gasp—so small he hardly hears it. The confident lover inches his way out of his hiding place.

Taking the time to allow you to get used to the sensation of his touch in such an intimate place feels like an impossible task, but he stays as still as possible. One wrong move and you’d go crawling back into your shell. Your skin warms quickly under his hands. He waits for the inevitable moment you tell him off or push him away, but it never comes.

He’s surprised by how docile he can be when faced with someone so out of their depth. In the past, he’d never think twice about touching a woman, but with you it’s as if he has to second guess his every action. He starts to feel a bit braver, psyching himself as he cups the round flesh in his hands. You fidget suddenly, causing your thigh to brush against his manhood. He tenses, battling his natural urges. There’s not much more of this he can take. You stare down at the culprit again.

It’s too much. He has to ask. Breathing through his nose, he puts forth the obvious question. “Do you want to touch it?”

Your head lifts as if you’ve just been caught stealing from the cookie jar. It only serves to send his thoughts down a dirtier path. “What?” you respond dazedly, your cheeks growing pink.

He glances down at the topic of the hour. They might as well be candid about this, seeing as how things will be a lot more intimate soon enough. “I asked if you wanted to touch it,” he whispered in a gravely voice.

Another maddening puff of air hits his face as you contemplate your answer. The itch under his skin is back in full force. It’s been there, just lingering, slowly building, anxiously waiting for someone to scratch it…and you’re right here to take care of it. “Do you want me to touch it?” you reply cautiously.

He holds back a snort. Any man would be a fool to say no.

“Only if you want to,” he shoots back, giving you no choice but to give him an honest answer. He knows how your brain works. You want him to do everything for you, including guiding you and telling you what to do. He wants you to take what you want. Take control for once.

Your head tilts down, though he can still see your blush from this angle. He doesn’t check your emotions, very aware that if he gets a sense of how nervous you are, he’ll want to stop this altogether. You pick at the skin around your nails absentmindedly. “How do I do it?”

He stills. You’re not saying no…

“Just do what feels right,” he says. Another nonresponse. He wants to see what you’ll do.

You nod halfheartedly to yourself, slowly inching your hand toward where he needs your touch the most. He straightens, forcing himself to stay collected. You move slowly. Too slowly. Please, please, please.

The first brush of your skin on that part of him has him sucking in a breath. He’s so sensitive. His body has been aching for you this whole time. One touch has him practically at the edge already.

You glance up at him, concerned that you’ve done something wrong. He nods encouragingly, giving you his consent to keep going. Don’t screw this up, idiot.

Your face screws up in concentration as you lightly brush your hand over it again. He struggles not to buck his hips up. You keep brushing your hand over it as if it’s some kind of delicate artifact that will crumble if you’re any rougher. It’s driving him mad. He finally has to intervene when you do it a third time.

Grabbing your hand, he guides it to the base, wrapping your fingers around the body part. “I won’t break if you’re a little rougher,” he breathes out.

Your brows raise. Your hand stays in place as if frozen. It’s obvious you’re completely and totally lost.

“What do they do in your books?” he prompts, knowing that will spur the correct response.

You tilt your head back down, letting your hair fall in your face so it’s obscured. He feels you squeeze your hand a little tighter and start rubbing him up and down. Fuck.

He throws his head back, basking in the special attention from you. It feels amazing. You should know how amazing it feels…

He grabs your chin, leaning in for a deep kiss. “That feels so nice,” he praises against your lips.

You lean back slowly. He watches as your eyes flash with an emotion that is unmistakable: lust. Hot, unbridled lust that makes his stomach do flips. He has to stare because he’s never seen you look at him like this before—at least not so openly.

You're quick to snap him out of his trance by doubling down on your efforts, starting to become more confident and sure with your hand motions. He almost sees stars. It’s too much. You need to stop now or he’ll burst before they’ve even begun. He grabs your wrist firmly.

Your head snaps up. He sees the worry written all over your face. You think you’ve done something wrong. He looks to the bed and then back to you. Screw it.

He snaps, planting you on your back and hovering over you just like he’s imagined so many times. Except now it’s real…

Your eyes run all over his face. It’s not hard to pick up on your emotions presently. He doesn’t have to pry to know how apprehensive you are right now. This is unfamiliar territory. He rubs your waist soothingly. “I’m going to get you nice and ready for me, okay?”

You purse your lips in confusion. He chuckles at your lack of understanding. You really are clueless right now, aren’t you? Not able to wait any longer, he starts kissing your neck, slowly dragging his lips down your body. First it’s your collarbone, then in between your breasts. He can’t resist taking one into his mouth. You gasp, arching up into him like a cat.

It’s not long before his mouth is traveling again, too overwhelmed with all this landscape to stay in one spot. Your stomach is next. He plants kisses on that part in particular, attempting to make you untense the muscles you‘ve started clenching again.

Your stomach moves up and down quickly against his lips—another sign of your nerves. His hands join his mouth, slowly rubbing the expanse of skin. Slowly but surely, your muscles loosen. He takes that as a sign to move down to the place he’s been craving the most, peppering your thighs with delicate kisses. You shut your legs without warning, just as you had the first time he pleasured you. His head lifts up to meet your gaze. “What’s wrong?”

Your hands fidget with the sheets beneath you. “What are you doing?”

He rubs your thighs lightly. You know exactly what he’s doing. “They do this in your books,” he points out. “Don’t act so coy.”

Your eyes narrow as your expression grows suspicious. “How do you know that?”

He shrugs lazily, remembering that he’s not supposed to know what goes on in your books. “Just a lucky guess. But I’m right, aren’t I?”

You nod reluctantly. He nudges your legs open with his knee, coming to get in between your legs like he did on the night he got his hands dirty. He doesn’t look down. Not yet. The covers had acted as a barrier the last time they did this. Now you’re bare. It’s like a bone dangling in front of him. Gods, what a sight you are. “This is supposed to help you relax. Do you not want me to do it?”

“You don’t need to see down there.”

“You saw me down there,” he counters. “Why can’t I see you down there?”

No answer is provided. Your stubborn stare is the only response given.

He sighs. “Do you think I’m going to be grossed out? I’ve seen women's bodies before, you know?”

Your jaw clenches. “Yeah, perfect women with perfect bodies.”

He shakes his head, quick to reprimand you. “No such thing as a perfect body, so best get that idea out of your head.”

You give no retort, a nonaction that worries him. You’re not acting like yourself.

He climbs back up your body, coming face to face with you. “Do you not like your body?” he questions sternly, though he meant it to be gentle.

Your eyes avoid him as you answer. “I don’t not like it. I’ve just never had someone study it so closely before.”

The last of his self control seeps away at that moment. “Then I won’t look. For now,” he promises before reaching his hand down to rub the spot he knows drives you crazy. Wetness is already gathered there to his immense satisfaction.

You arch up again, not able to hide the whimper that escapes you.

The corners of his lips pull upward. He can’t help but egg you on. “Are you going to be loud this time?”

You shake your head rebelliously, starting to clamp your mouth shut. What a stubborn female.

“You sure about that?” he asks before rubbing harder. You grab the sheets, letting out a full on moan. It’s music to his ears.

“There you go,” he praises.

You squirm in place, but don’t stop him. He thinks you're enjoying this, though you're biting your lip so hard he fears it might bleed.

He reaches up with his other hand to tug your lip free. “Don’t. Not this time. No one’s around. You can loosen up.”

You’re quick to pout. “It’s not that easy, Az.”

“Oh, it’s not, huh?” Those words are a challenge to him. He’ll get you to relax one way or another. “I know something that might help you.”

You struggle to get your next words out. He enjoys watching you try to speak through your pleasure. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see.” Without warning, he slides down your body, lifting your hips up to devour you like a man starved.

Your body gives a quick jolt before your thighs clamp around his head involuntarily. It’s exactly where he wants to be.

With the help of his shadows, he manages to pry your legs open slightly so that he has some wiggle room.

A couple quick breaths escape you before you finally manage to speak again. “Az—“

“Shhh,” he mumbles against your heat.

Your breath hitches as you continue to squirm under his hold.

He pushes your hips down. “Try to stay still,” he instructs.

A little whimper is heard then—a good sign, he hopes. He amps up his efforts, feeling your body play a cruel game of tug of war with itself. One part wants to inch away, while the other insists on rolling your hips upwards.

He lifts his head for the first time, locking his hands around your hips to keep you in place. “Good?” he checks, a little out of breath.

A thin layer of sweat covers your face as you clear your throat, obviously trying to compose yourself. You look absolutely wrecked. He has to stop himself from letting his hand travel down to his own lower half just to relieve the built up pressure.

An innocent smile paints his face as he waits for an answer.

When you realize he’s not going to continue until you give him some type of response, you nod your head slightly. Not good enough.

“You want more?” he asks, rubbing your thighs slowly.

You dip your head, your shyness coming back in full force. That just won’t do. He taps your thigh gently, gaining your reluctant attention. “Don’t do that. Don’t go back into your shell,” he reprimands as gently as he can.

You let out a deep sigh through your nose, frowning to yourself.

The gentle protector calls. He inches up your body once again, cupping your cheeks softly. “Tell me what you want.”

He watches as you fight with yourself not to hold back. His hands stroke your cheeks patiently.

Still, you don’t answer, instead toying with his hair. It’s cute, but it’s not what he instructed. He kisses your hand, pulling it away from him. “Do you want more?” he presses, repeating his question from earlier.

You nod as if even that simple action is hard for you, but you finally find your voice, and it’s surprisingly firm when you manage to speak. “Yes.”

He nods approvingly, trailing back down your body, eager to finish what he started.

Your hips arch into him as if on a timer. He allows it this time, continuing his mission to leave you satiated and satisfied.

Your breathing picks back up too. It’s like clockwork. Then, finally—finally—you start to make some noise.

Little sounds at first. Whimpers, quiet moans. He’s just glad he can get something out of you, but he knows you can do better than that.

While he laps away like a dog thirsting for water, a rogue finger slips in. As if on que, your legs start to close, but his shadows are there to stop the motion.

A hand suddenly grips his hair, tugging at the strands. Gods.

“Wait, Az, hold on—“

He chuckles from in between your legs as he feels them start to shake, not stopping his ministrations in the slightest. You're close. He knows it and you know it. So he triples his efforts, curling his fingers to hit the same spot over and over again.

“Az, please—“

He doesn’t listen to your pleas, focusing solely on bringing you pleasure. The space in between your legs is all he knows right now.

You start to shake, bucking up uncontrollably. He just pushes your hips back down.

When you start to whine again, he knows you’ve had enough. He stops reluctantly, breaking away from in between your legs to crawl back up your body until he’s hovering over you.

You’re drenched with sweat. He doesn’t care. You look up, trying to catch your breath. He stares down at you, utterly captivated.

You push some hair out of your face. “Stop that.”

He blinks. “Stop what?”

“I can—“ you pause, obviously hesitating to say your next words. You shake your head, spitting them out. “I can hear your thoughts. They’re…loud.”

He pauses, leaning up. No. If you’ve been sensing what he feels—just as he’s been sensing what you feel—then you’ve heard it all. Everything. All of his impure thoughts. All of his pent up lust and depravity. Weeks of trying to hide his animalistic urges served useless with a single sentence. “So you can…you mean you can feel how I feel right now?”

“Not exactly. It’s usually subtle. Only since the night we bonded. But right now…it’s like you're practically shouting your thoughts at me.”

He swallows, trying to clear his thoughts. Fuck.

You keep fiddling with your hair. “Is this…normal?”

He shakes his head halfheartedly. “I don’t know. I’ve never been mated before. We’d have to ask Rhysand or Feyre. If it makes you feel any better, I can sense your emotions too.”

Your eyes widen. “What?!”

“Mmmhmm.” He runs a finger down your jaw. “I know that you're practically jumping out of your skin right now. I know that you’re fighting with yourself to be brave. But I also know that you’re curious. I know that you want to explore that curiosity. Explore this,” he finishes as he gestures between your bodies.

You shiver, turning your head away. “Stop prying.”

“You did it first,” he argues.

You cover your face like a child hiding from their parents. “Please just try to dial down your…your…”

“What?” he taunts, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “My love for you? My absolute need for you? Do you finally believe me now? I told you I liked you.”

You turn your head even more, trying to push your face into your pillow, but he stops you, grabbing your face to kiss you like a man starved.

You inhale, kissing back timidly. He licks your lower lip while simultaneously running a hand down your throat. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

He pulls back, pupils dilated. “I want you.”

The space between your eyebrows creases. There it is again. That curiosity mixed with panic. You reach for his hand. “It’ll hurt.”

He deflates instantly. In his lust-filled rampage he was quick to forget how this experience feels from your perspective. Chastising himself, he tries to comfort you. “Only for a little bit. Just this once. Hopefully not as much now that I’ve prepared you.”

You glance down there.

He brings your head up with his pointer finger. Regret settles deep within him. “Are you not ready?”

You fiddle with his hand. “I just…I’m scared.”

“Of the pain?”

You nod your head.

He leans back, ready to shut this down if need be. “I wish I could tell you it won’t hurt. I’ll try to be as gentle as I can. Do you think you can handle it?”

You let out a deep breath, pulling him back to you. “You promise you’ll go slow?”

He nods earnestly. “Of course. We have all night. We can take as much time as you need.”

The doubt leeches from your face, replaced with sheer determination. “Just get it over with.”

He tugs your chin closer. It’s just like your first kiss. You had practically demanded he ‘get it over with’. He’s not falling for it this time. “Don’t talk like that. This is supposed to be an enjoyable experience.”

You swallow, closing your eyes. “Easy for you to say,” you mutter petulantly.

He tsks, wrapping his hands around your waist to tug your hips toward his. “I promise for every bit of pain that you feel, I’ll give you double the pleasure later on.”

You purposefully keep your eyes closed. “Just do it, Az.”

He stays right where he is. This is no time to rush. Besides, it would likely only hurt more if he went fast. “Not until you open your eyes.”

Your face sours. “Az—“

“I mean it, Y/N.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, but peek open one eye.

“Both of them,” he orders.

The annoyance radiating off of you is not subtle. It’s obvious how reluctant you are to follow his instructions. It’s a feat in itself that he’s able to get you to listen to him.

He nods encouragingly, hoping to appeal to your softer side as he lurches forward to press his forehead to yours. You shift uncomfortably, as if the proximity cements just how important this moment is.

Once again, he shoves what little calmness he has left straight down your end of the bond. This process could be pointless for all he knows. He can’t know for sure that it works, but judging by the way you always soften in his hold, he has to hope that it’s doing something.

Seconds tick by…minutes, maybe. Your closed off facade slowly crumbles, leaving only you behind. He leans up. “Better?”

You nod against him.

Good. He kisses you once before pushing himself up on his forearms. His composure had left him long ago. All that’s left are nerves and need—a particularly potent combination. “Ready?” he asks gruffly.

Another nod is your only answer. He doesn’t chide you this time for being silent.

His hands start to shake as he lines himself up carefully, pressing up against the place he’s been craving for what feels like ages. Your body locks up quickly despite all of the work he’d just put in to ease your nerves. He couldn’t blame you. Not when his own nerves are so high. It’s a struggle to speak, but he manages to get the words out. “I’m going to move forward now. Try to relax.”

He abandons all resistance as he pushes in the slightest bit, feeling heavenly warmth enveloping him.

You hiss, promptly pushing your hand against his lower stomach at the first push.

He stops immediately, feeling your body stretch to accommodate him. He knows how uncomfortable it must feel. Breathing through his nose to stave off the need to just push in all at once, he brings the gentle protector out. “Relax,” he reminds you.

You whimper softly. His heart aches upon hearing the pitiful sound. The bond sends him warning signals, begging him to fix what’s ailing you, but all he can do is try to soothe you. He rubs your thighs slowly. “It’s okay. Just let your body get used to it.”

You grind your teeth, starting to close your legs. His shadows intervene before you can make much progress. He brushes a hand over your stomach. Your muscles are tight. All your muscles…

He shakes his head to distract himself from the tightness. He’s barely started. How’s he going to last if you’re already hugged around him like a snake squeezing the life out of its prey? “Stop clenching.”

“I can’t,” you grit out.

He takes a deep breath. Don’t lose control. “Yes, you can. Loosen your stomach muscles,” he advises, his voice coming out calmer than expected.

“I can’t—“

“Shhh,” he cuts you off, rubbing your stomach slowly. The action is just as much for him as it is for you.

You release a breath, grabbing onto his forearms. He feels the pressure ease the tiniest bit. “Good,” he praises.

“It hurts,” you mumble.

He pauses, sensing guilt seep into his hazy brain. This feels selfish somehow. It’s not like he’s forcing you to do this. You want it. He knows you do, but knowing you’re in pain dulls the excitement he felt earlier. There’s no way he can stop now, though. “I know. It’ll be over soon. Just keep breathing through it.”

You suck in a breath, releasing it slowly.

He waits until you do it one more time before speaking. “I’m going to push in a bit more, okay?”

You respond by slowly removing your hand from his lower stomach. It’s your way of giving him permission to continue.

The tightness doesn’t lessen as he pushes forward another inch. Though the sensation is glorious, he has absolutely no wiggle room.

Another whimper escapes you as you dig your nails into his arms. His patience is repeatedly tested each time he waits for you to adjust to the new depth.

“How much more?” you whine.

He looks down, seeing that he’s not even halfway in. “Just a bit more,” he lies.

You finally release his arms, moving instead to grip the sheets. He ignores the marks in the shapes of crescent moons left behind while carrying on massaging your stomach. “How are you doing?”

You brush off his question, studying the ceiling as if yearning for the bed to swallow you whole.

He taps your thigh to guide your attention back to him. “Hey, look at me.”

The squirming ramps up again. You never listen.

His hands latch onto your hips more forcefully this time. “You’ll make it worse,” he warns.

As fast as lightning, you're gripping back onto his forearms again, yanking him down until he’s face to face with you. He wished he could say he was met with a pleasant sight. Analyzing your expression, he sees the anguish there, the redness blooming across your lip from how many times you've bitten it, the sheen of your skin. Your eyes are practically begging him to make the pain go away.

He doesn’t think twice, cupping your cheeks in his hands and licking your lower lip once. Twice. “Kiss me,” he demands.

You don’t wait for him to say it again, reaching up to grab the back of his neck aggressively. He lets you control the kiss, knowing you need a distraction and you need it now. You nip at his lower lip uncharacteristically. He focuses on the faint pain, not pulling away.

You sink further into the kiss…and further and further and further…until he pushes in again. His reward is your teeth on his lips. You bite down hard. He thinks he tastes blood, but he disregards the metallic flavor, continuing to mash lips against yours so you’ll stay distracted.

Your hands move to his back, nails scraping against his skin rather roughly, though he knows you're likely not doing it on purpose…or are you?

He endures the pain. Anything for your comfort as he always says. Your hands trail down, down, down until they reach the base of his wings.

He growls—actually growls—snapping up and ripping your hands off of him, trapping them against the bed. Your eyes flutter open softly as if clueless to what you’ve just done. Clueless to the monster you’re about to awaken. “Did I hurt you?” you ask in a soft, concerned manner.

Far from it. He softens his grip. “They’re sensitive,” he reminds you, hearing his voice break at the end of his sentence.

Your brows furrow for a moment before you realize what he’s referring to. “I hurt you?” you repeat, still clueless as can be.

He shakes his head, slowly letting go of your wrists. His heart beats unsteadily. As if he would tell you what caused his outburst.

You tilt your head, seemingly forgetting about the pain. “What’s wrong?”

“Just—just be careful…” he trails off.

Your eyes travel all over his face, trying to read him. He leans back down to start the kiss where it left off, cutting you off from seeing the desperation written all over his face.

You kiss back with just as much ferocity, thankfully.

His patience is ebbing. Just wait…wait…wait

Just when you start to get comfortable again, he closes the last bit of distance between you.

You break the kiss when your legs involuntarily close around him like a vice as if your body is trying to expel him.

He grabs your chin, making you focus on him. The guilt wades its way back in. He just wants you to enjoy this, but he knows they have to get over this hurdle for you to feel pleasure. “Hey, hey, take it easy. Just stay still, okay?”

You wring the sheets in your hands as if restless, squeezing so hard your knuckles turn white.

Worry racks his body. He’s quick to place your hands on his shoulders. “You’ve gotta breathe, Y/N.”

Your arms wrap around his neck. He blows cool air in your face, attempting to coax you out of your panic.

You copy the timing of his breaths, lulling into a steady rhythm. This whole process is time consuming. It’s like trying to train a feral cat to tolerate you. Minutes pass. Your heart rate steadies. He traces the point of your ear. “You ready for me to move?”

Your breath falters as if already thinking the worst. He shakes his head reprimandingly. “I’ll be gentle, remember?”

Your breath stays uneven. He sighs, knowing this is likely as calm as you’re going to get. So he starts moving…

You gasp, quickly biting your lip to mask the sound, but he hears it anyway

All he can do is stroke your cheeks as he starts a rhythm of pulling back and then moving forward. Once. Twice. Three times…

“You said it would stop hurting,” you speak up hoarsely.

He nods. “It will. Your body just has to adjust. Give it a couple more minutes.”

“Azzz,” you drag out his name all whiny-like.

He chuckles despite the situation. You haven’t even experienced the good part. “I’m going to make it good, don’t you worry.”

He makes sure to slide out a little more this time before sliding back in. Back and forth and back forth he goes, but you show no signs of your pain lessening. He’d thought it’d have eased by now. There is one thing they could try…

He pauses, trailing his fingers across your jaw lightly. You’ll probably put up a fight. “I’ve heard of something that might help…but I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

Your eyes flutter up to meet him. “What is it?” you reply cautiously.

He hesitates, but the wince you let out when he moves has him spitting the words out. “Some people say that it’s a bit more comfortable for the woman if they get on top. Would you want to try that?”

“No.”

He pauses. Well, that was fast. “Wait, wait, just hear me out—“

“Az—“

“Listen to me,” he orders, his voice rising the slightest bit.

Your mouth clamps shut, cutting yourself off from what you were about to say.

He swallows audibly. He didn’t mean to get so snappy, but you’re just so stubborn. “Just listen,” he repeats. “Something about the angle or the pressure changing…it’s—it’s supposed to help. We could at least try. I’m not going to sit here and watch you writhe in pain if I can do something about it.”

You scan him suspiciously. “You don’t know for sure if it helps?”

He shakes his head sheepishly. “It’s just something I’ve heard. I don’t know if it’ll work.”

Your eyes dart down to what little space is in between your bodies. “What if I fall?” you whisper pitifully.

He smirks. You have no faith in him, do you? “I’ll hold you tight.”

You're silent for a couple more seconds, but then you nod your head carefully. “Okay…”

He breathes a sigh of relief. “Alright. Hold on to me.”

He maneuvers you gently, slowly reversing your positions until you're on top and he’s on the bottom. You’re a sight for sore eyes. He can’t help but admire you from his position down below.

You grunt at the change in depth, trying to lift your hips away from his.

His hands squeeze your hips firmly, keeping you in place before you can get too far. “Easy or you’ll hurt yourself. Is this okay?”

“I don’t know yet,” you reply, seemingly not knowing how to react now that you’re in control.

He chokes down the laugh that wants to escape him, composing himself enough to speak. “Move how you’d like.”

You just stare at him as if he’s grown a second head. He always has to do all the work, doesn’t he?

He pumps his hips up slightly to spur you into action, but it only causes you to jerk forward as if you’ve just been bucked off by a bull. You plant your hands on his chest to stabilize yourself. This will be harder than he thought…

He guides your hips back down carefully. “Don’t run away from it. Get out of that head of yours. Stop thinking so much and just do what feels right.”

You groan in frustration. “Can you just move for me?”

It’s an appealing offer, but he’s hesitant to let you off the hook that easily. “Trying to get me to do all the work?”

You frown. “Az.”

He grows serious, noticing how discouraged you are. As much as he’d love to see you take control, he’ll forever regret it if you end up hating your first time. “Fine, if you insist.”

Sitting up so he’s at eye level with you, he starts to move your hips up and down slowly, letting you feel the drag of skin against skin. “Better?

You nod timidly.

How is he supposed to stay composed when you look up at him like that? He feigns nonchalance. “Feels nice?”

Your face darkens. It’s not long before you're hiding your face in the crook of his neck. There you go again, crawling into yourself as if you can’t stand to have him watch you when you’re in this state. He tugs on your hair gently. “Ah, ah, ah,” he scolds. “No hiding. I want to see you.”

You shake your head obstinately.

He tugs more firmly this time, getting you to lean your head back. You’re not very pleased judging by the look on your face. The humor leaves him quickly. “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” he says seriously. “It’s a natural reaction. Your body likes it.”

Your eyes avoid his. “Does it feel good for you?”

He nods earnestly. “It feels amazing.”

You keep your head lifted, but continue to hide from his stare. He'll count that as a win. His movements grow more exaggerated, though he’s determined to stay gentle in case of any lingering pain.

You're obviously trying to keep your reactions to a minimum. It’s easy to notice by how quiet you’ve gotten. He strains to hear something. A gasp, a moan, a whimper, anything, but he’s left unsatisfied.

He lays back. “Your turn.”

You freeze as if you’ve just been dunked in cold water.

Your refusal to try anything new is starting to frustrate him. He brings out his best puppy dog eyes. “Just try it. Just for a bit. For me.”

You chew on your lower lip, contemplating his request. It’s a big ask, he knows, but he wants to make sure you explore all of your options tonight.

Slowly, your hands move back to his chest. His heart speeds up. The anticipation is killing him. He longs to see you uninhibited and wild. It’s a long shot, but if he can just put your worries to rest, he might be in luck.

It’s awkward and clumsy at first as you get used to moving all on your own, but it feels good all the same. Great, even. Though maybe this is a bad idea due to how turned on he is. It’s a struggle not to burst on the spot.

Your eyes are glued to his chest instead of him as you find your groove, but he doesn’t reprimand you this time. The slow drag is killing him. He wants to tell you to speed up, but he’s not the one calling the shots anymore.

Your movements start to even out, though they are still cautious as ever, almost as if moving faster would ruin the experience. He breaths through his nose to contain the moans that are closing to tumbling out.

His hands find your thighs. “You’re doing good,” he praises.

Your head lifts at the sound of his voice. Your voice comes out meek when you speak. “Can we go back to how we were doing it before?”

His growing pleasure fades just as quickly as it had appeared. Your lack of excitement disappoints him. This is not how he had expected this to go. Is he doing something wrong? Is he pushing you too fast? “Are you not enjoying this?”

You shake your head quickly. “I am, I just…”

He listens as you trail off. He can guess exactly why you want to switch places. You hate the attention. You hate being in the spotlight. It’s always been this way with you. You were the one who ran away when trying on dresses for the Winter Solstice celebration, who sinks down in your seat whenever someone addresses you at dinner. You were the one who’s first thought after making a deal with him was to wonder what people would think. It’s in your nature.

If this were any other time, he may have encouraged you to stay on top, but this is your first time. This is all new to you. It’s scary and overwhelming and unpredictable. He’s not about to ruin this for you by being selfish—even if it’d be for your own good.

He nods. “Hold on.”

Gently, he slowly turns them over, settling back in between your legs as if he’s meant to be there.

You look relieved that he actually obeyed you.

He starts rocking back and forth, praying the pain is gone by now.

You let out a little moan that has his heart soaring.

He smirks evilly. “You like that?”

“Shut up.”

His eyes widened at the unexpected retort. Someone’s feeling bossy. He zips his mouth obediently, allowing his movements to speak for him.

Your breath comes out in uneven spurts, but this time it can’t be blamed on nerves. That’s pure pleasure you’re feeling. It makes him hot all over.

You start to trail your hands down his back, heading for his wings again.

He lifts slightly, ready to tell you off again. “Y/N—“

He cuts himself off right then because your finger runs right down a particularly sensitive ridge of his wings.

A curse escapes him as he crumbles and folds into your body like a piece of paper. Fuck.

Your hands move back up again, thankfully, but his relief is short lived because you're soon moving them right back down where they came from.

He snaps up once again before you can reach his wings. His breath is uneven as he speaks. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You smile knowingly. “You like it.” A statement not a question.

He falters, losing his train of thought. He thought he’s been doing a good job hiding his secret love for being touched in that area, but looking back, maybe he’s been a bit too obvious. Glancing back down at you, he sees your sly expression. “If you keep doing that, then this will be over very quickly.”

You’re still smiling like a cat who’s trapped its prey. He’ll give you something to smile about.

Finally recovered, he begins moving a bit more dramatically, dragging out far before easing himself back in. He goes as slow as he can, wishing to get revenge.

You spread your legs slightly. He watches in real time as you grow shy again. “Can you go a bit faster?” you whisper.

It’s his turn to smile now. Those words are like music to his ears. He picks up the pace, toeing the line between rough and gentle. “Like this?”

You throw your head back, biting your lip and clenching around him. Gods. The sight is glorious. If he wouldn't be considered so taboo, he’d have Feyre paint you in this state, all whimpery and disheveled.

He ignores the sudden tightness as best he can, focusing on lasting so he can make this night as good for you as possible.

You whine, beginning to move your hips in small motions. His eyes light up with delight. What a gift it is to see you like this. “Go on. Keep going. Just like your books,” he encourages.

Your eyes narrow. Uh oh. “You read my—“

He pushes in deep, watching the breath leave your body. This no filter thing is starting to cause him problems. You weren’t supposed to find out.

“You asshole—“

He cuts you off again, changing angles. “Please don’t turn this into a thing right now. We can talk about this later. When you’re not under me…”

You actually listen to him, bucking your hips up to move in time with his, though your glare could cut glass.

He fights the urge to lift your hips and take control. This is about you, not him. But maybe another time…

You continue to whine as if the sudden change of pace has rendered you helpless. He feels the impulsive need to tease you, but he knows you’d only clam up if he did, so he keeps his mouth shut.

Rejuvenated by your sudden enthusiasm, he pushes deeper. It’s not long before he has to say something, too enthralled to stay silent. “You’re doing great. I told you it would feel good.”

You suck in a breath, suddenly ceasing motion. Your hands reach out to find his, immediately tracing his scars at the first contact.

His jaw clenches in frustration as he feels his pleasure ebb away. “What’s wrong? Are you close?”

You shake your head, continuing to trace his scars, your face bunched up in concentration.

Liar. You’re trying to prolong your climax, probably too embarrassed of how quickly he got you to this point. His hands latch onto your hips, moving even quicker than before to build momentum again. “It’s okay if you are. I’m close too.”

You arch your back beautifully. It’s mesmerizing. He leans down to kiss your burning cheeks. “Relax. It’ll feel nice. You’ve already experienced this twice now, remember?”

Your face contorts into a mixture of pleasure and overstimulation as your body experiences satisfaction, not from his hands, not from his mouth, but by him alone.

Your body language only encourages him. “Just focus on me.”

Once again, your body tightens around him as if molding yourself around him. It feels downright sinful. He curses, trying not to climax before you do. “Just hold on. You’re almost there.”

His body goes into high gear, leveling up another notch as he starts getting rougher.

You squeeze his wrists hard, your breath coming out in little pants.

He kisses you harshly as if under a love spell. He’s unraveling far too quickly. Not yet.

You moan into the open mouthed kiss quite similar to how a harlot servicing her patron would.

He bites your lip gently, needing something to focus on besides the damn that’s about to burst.

You push on his chest, legs shaking. “Az…”

His pace falters, but he stays moving. He knows you’re about to tip over the edge. You always try to stop him when you’re close. “I know. Just let go.”

You close your eyes, digging your nails into his skin. It’s not long before you start whining again. It’s too much.

He climaxes just before you, his hips sputtering to a stop. You’re soon to follow, shaking around him like a leaf. He collapses on top of you.

Your breath is heard near his ear as he stays there, both because his limbs feel like jello and because he doesn't want to leave your divine warmth.

You push on his chest, likely too sensitive to handle him inside you any longer.

He eases out of you slowly, coming to lay against your side. It takes a moment to catch his breath. “Was it as good as your books say?” he mumbles.

You ease your legs closed carefully. There’s a good chance you’ll feel sore in the morning—maybe even now.

Everything is quiet. Both his mind and body feel numb. He’s not sure what to say after such an intense experience. He rubs your back, poking your face to try to get your attention. “Well?” he presses hesitantly.

You breathe against his neck softly. “It was better than they say,” you murmur.

He smirks. “Want me to draw you a bath?” His hands lower, coming to massage your thighs in an attempt to relieve the ache left behind from being in one position for so long.

You shiver suddenly, as if remembering your bare and covered in sweat. “Can you come with me?”

He smiles at the invitation. Who is he to turn such an offer down? “Of course.”

Carefully disentangling with you, he walks on wobbly legs toward the bathroom. “Wait here,” he says over his shoulder.

He lets out a groan as he bends down to turn the faucet on, making sure the water is at just the right temperature for you. As the water fills, he takes the time to reminisce on what just occurred.

Finally, you had opened yourself up to him. All of you. Every part. Yes, you had shied away and tried to hide from him, but your bravery came out on top. He knew you could do it. Now all that’s left to do is to make sure you’re okay.

Coming around the corner, he’s met with the sight of you sprawled out on the bed in the same position he left you in. You look exhausted. He hopes it’s the good kind of exhausted.

He shakes you gently. “Come on, sleepyhead. Time to get you clean.”

You stick your hands out lazily, making a grabby motion.

He chuckles, scooping you up with ease. Your head comes to rest against his shoulder. “Did I wear you out?”

“I’m sore,” you mutter.

He frowns, his good mood fading. Shit.

Carrying you to the edge of the tub, he assists you as you sink into the warm water. He hopes it will soothe your worn out muscles. It can’t have been easy to stay so tense for so long. “Was I too rough?” he whispers self consciously.

You ignore his question, going shifty-eyed. “Did I make another mess?”

He stills. That’s what you have to say after this whole encounter? Not ‘that felt good’ or ‘I’m so glad I went through with this.’ You never give yourself grace, do you? He grabs your chin. “Was I too rough?” he repeats more firmly. This is not a game. He needs to know that he didn’t hurt you.

You tug on his arm needily. He quickly understands what you’re asking for. Climbing into the tub, he settles in on the opposite side to give you some distance. His eyes pierce yours, still waiting for an answer.

You don’t give him one, instead leaving your side of the tub to crawl onto his lap as if this is just another night and they’re sitting on the couch. He allows it for now, letting you tuck your head into the crook of his neck while he begins to run a bar of soap down your body.

You’re slumped against him as if you don’t have a bone left in your body. He can’t blame you. The first time is always the most intense. Just the anticipation alone is draining enough.

Once he’s done meticulously cleaning your body, his hands travel to your hair, massaging the fancy shampoo he bought you into your scalp. He had snatched it up one day in the market when you weren’t looking. You'd have never bought it yourself.

You nuzzle into him, almost purring like a cat. He closes his eyes, basking in the quiet aftermath. This is always the best part. The part when both parties are left tired but satiated, too filled with love to begin to even communicate it, so they just hold each other. Except he has just enough energy left to say the words he’s been meaning to say for a long time.

He turns his head toward you, his heart heavy with what he’s about to admit. His heart should be pounding right now, but he’s too at peace to be bothered with the possible consequences. “I love you,” he murmurs.

You lift your head, staring at him all doe-like. Please say it back, please say it back.

Your hand finds one of his underneath the water. “Promise?”

It’s so like you to respond that way—to verify it with him first, to make sure the words are real. It might be the most real thing he’s ever said. He’sfast to respond, lacing his fingers with yours. “I promise.”

Your head finds his neck again. He shoves the disappointment deep down. It’s too soon. You need more time.

You kiss his cheek softly, leaning in close. “I love you too,” you whisper.

He breathes a sigh of relief, feeling as though he’s Atlas being relieved from his duty of holding up the sky. That’s in one of your mortal books he’s read. One of the only ones that wasn't a corny romance. “Promise?” he repeats your words back to you.

Your face is still tucked against him, but he feels the corners of your mouth crease into a smile. “I promise.”

Feeling weightless now, he pulls your face in for a kiss, savoring you in this afterglow while he still can. Your lips move against his slowly, as if you don’t have a care in the world—and maybe you don’t.

They kiss until the water runs cold, until the bubbles turn into suds, until he’s out of breath.

He wraps you in a towel afterward, carrying you to your bed to cuddle up with you. His wings wrap around you the moment he’s free from his own towel. It’s complete bliss. He feels powerful, as if nothing can ever affect him, nothing can ever bring him down again because he has you here in his arms.

His mate, his safe place, his reason for living. Never again will he have to worry about being left behind while Rhysand and Cassian saunter off with their lovers—because he knows Cassian is in love with Nesta but just won’t bring himself to admit it. Never again will he have to worry about growing old with no one by his side to keep him company.

He thought he could survive that possibility—thought he would have to eventually. But after experiencing what it’s like to be with you…Well, he could only thank the gods that this worked out. You opened your heart to him against all odds. You waltzed into his life by some miracle. He’s never taken that for granted.

Sleep comes easy that night. It’s probably the best sleep of his life if he’s being honest. For once, he has nothing to worry about. No anxious thoughts fill his head. He doesn’t think about whether you’re going to accept the bond or if you’ll wake up one random morning and decide you hate him.

There’s no room for anxiety, not when the bond is cemented. He’s never felt so light.

In the morning he’s sure to keep his promise to you. He brings you breakfast in bed. You’re cautious around him at first as if he didn’t practically mold into you last night. He stays patient, waiting on you to warm up to him and realize that nothing is going to go awry just because you gave in last night. You’re still the same old you and he’s still the same old him.

You finally ease back into yourself when you pick up one of your books, exchanging a knowing look upon remembering the shared knowledge the both of them now have—a moment that makes the both of you giggle like children.

He’d plan the whole day out, excited to take you to your favorite haunts. When you said you’d rather laze about all day with him, he didn’t balk. After all, he’s never once regretted staying in with you.

When you both fell in bed together, somehow weary after doing nothing all day, he didn’t touch you. There would be ample time for that later. They had centuries to get to know each other's bodies—every tell, each place that drove the other mad…he’d memorize them all eventually.

With time, you open yourself up to him. He still manages to make color rise in your cheeks every once in a while, but a quiet confidence starts to follow your every action. You start to initiate touch, tease him in situations where you wouldn’t have before, and even explore him occasionally.

This newfound confidence isn’t just contained to the confines of their home. He sees it when you train with Cassian, when attention is brought on to you at dinner, when you're put in an unpredictable situation.

It’s a steadiness that wasn’t there before. Sure, you’re still timid at times and sure you’re still a homebody. It’s in your nature. But you’re…comfortable. The difference is so obvious looking back. The way you scoffed at the thought of eating dinner with the others, the longing to buy your own place so you could hide yourself away, the rage that overtook you when you didn't do something perfectly the very first time. Somewhere along the way that all just…faded.

You’re at home. That’s what it is. You’ve found your place. With him. And to think he was so worried about you running away to the Mortal Lands. That all feels like a far off dream.

Here you are. In his arms. Your rightful place. He pulls you close, throwing his wings around you like a blanket. His shadows hover close by. Your loyal friends. Nothing can ever beat this feeling. Nothing can even come close.

He rubs your cheek like he’s done it a thousand times before—because he has. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you,” he whispers.

Your eyes raise to meet his—those pretty eyes that he loves so much. You put him under your spell for the millionth time. “Promise?”

The bond purrs contently. It’s come to be more of a companion rather than the nuisance it started as. He leans in for a kiss. They never fail to make him melt.

“Promise.”

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