if I offer you the moon on a string,

will you give me a kiss, too?

[halo-hanging]

Masterlist 🦢 Find me on AO3 This blog posts explicit content.

Fics

Dark Desires ⭒ Azriel x reader x Rhysand Sins & Shadows | Shards and Shadows ⭒ Azriel x Vanserra!Reader Caught on Camera ⭒ Human!Camboy!Azriel x Neighbor!Friend!Reader Self-Indulgent | (part I) (part II) ⭒ Azriel x Priestess!Reader Vendetta ⭒ Modern!Mafia!Eris x Rival mafia princess!Reader Kneady ⭒ Azriel x Baker!Reader

Blurbs, drabbles, & headcannons

Dark Desires blurb ⭒ Azriel x Reader 69 with Azriel Azriel x Vampire!Reader Sub!Lucien Modern!Azriel's Christmas Video Surprise Vampire!Rhys x Reader Kidnapper!Azriel

Requests are closed, but I'm more than willing to discuss or expand on any of my current works 🌟 (...except Dark Desires)

© 2026 @halo-hanging No part of these works may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form. DO NOT FEED MY WORKS INTO AI.

[halo-hanging]

Scars & Shadows

Part I

Pairing: Azriel x Vanserra!Reader 

Word count: 4.1k

Contains: Post what-could-be-considered sexual assault, self-harm?, mention of splattered brains, physical violence, blood. Unedited, no use of Y/N. 

a/n: halo-hanging posting ?! 😦 sorry if any spelling errors my spellcheck isn’t working. also shoutout to you all for giving me the ideas to write this one so sorry i’ve been gone <3

Cold air clung to your skin tighter than the thin shift wrapped around you, carrying a damp, musty weight that settled deep in your lungs with every breath. 

That male hadn’t returned since throwing the itchy garment through the bars and telling you to suck it up. 

You didn’t want to think of his name—which, at least, you hadn’t provided him the satisfaction of moaning. Just thinking of him and what he’d done to you…your stomach roiled with shame at the sick, sick part of you that initially found him just the slightest bit attractive, that enjoyed—even just a little bit, enough to want to orgasm—his complete violation of your body. 

Your body, which was still shaking as you curled your legs up to your chest, the dim light allowing you to see your skinned knees when his damned shadows had dropped you. Gently, you brushed your thumbs over the scrapes. 

It was sickening how you could still feel his seed dripping out of you. 

In. Out. In. Out. You reminded yourself to breathe, even as the sound of your heartbeat in your ears got louder. 

The hope that your brothers would be here had soon dimmed. Maybe you didn’t matter as much as you actually thought. Maybe you weren’t worth the effort of retrieving.

So much for holding you as leverage against your court. 

Soon you lay your aching, shivering body sideways on the ground, legs still curled up. If it were any other time, you might’ve been mindful of the cleanliness—but nothing could be more disgusting now that you’d been taken in such a way by some Night Court scum. 

And even as you tried to keep silent, the dungeon walls echoed your weeping mockingly. 

Meanwhile, upstairs, Azriel was occupied with drafting the terms for the Vanserra girl’s return. Not his task of choice—but he could never disobey outright orders from his High Lord. 

The quill flew across the paper, using the neat lettering he favoured for diplomatics. Whilst the Vanerssa daughter was one of the main subjects of the paper, you, downstairs, were barely a thought in his mind. Merely a good fuck and hopefully something that’d irk your eldest brother if he found out. Azriel wasn’t afraid of potential revenge for the act, being undaunted by Eris—though he should probably give you something to mask his scent on you, not wanting to go through the trouble of the male. 

Azriel continued to write. 

Your response will determine how—and how soon she 

Azriel froze. His shadows, once lazily swirling at his feet, froze as well. 

Something was wrong.

The world tilted. 

Blood roared in his ears, each heartbeat slamming through him until the edges of his vision darkened. For a moment, there was nothing but shadows.

Then it collapsed.

As quickly as it came, the sensation shrank into a hollow in his chest. The entirety of that feeling compressing into such a small space. A black hole. He couldn’t breathe. It hooked its fingers into his heart and pulled, wrenching something deep and vital in him to—

You. 

Mate, the tug whispered.

Azriel’s breaths fractured. His fingers tangled in his hair, hard enough he should’ve felt pain, but he didn’t.

Mate, it whispered again. 

This second time his shadows understood.

They recoiled. 

They moved faster than he’d ever seen—not from the room, or a threat—but from him. Vanishing into nothing. 

Azriel sat alone, the word echoing in his chest. On the desk beneath him, the quill pen had leaked ink all over the statement he’d been drafting. Irremovable stains expanding over his precise writing, mirroring the way the bond spread over his usually controlled self. 

His legs itched to carry him to the dungeons downstairs, but he strongly doubted you’d want to see his face. He wasn’t even sure if you’d felt the mating link snap yet. How was he supposed to fix anything like this? With what he’d just done to you…he gagged on the bile that surged.

So badly, Azriel’s instincts called out to protect you, to care for you. How was he supposed to do that if you refused him? If you were afraid of him? His breath lodged in his throat.

For once, Azriel had no clue what to do. 

The first thing you noticed when you awoke was the thick blanket over you. He probably realised you’d be of no use to Night if you died of hypothermia. 

The second thing you noticed was the dulled soreness between your thighs, then your eyes tired from crying. 

It was brighter now. The sconces lining the walls near your cell had been lit. Shifting around, you found a tray with water that looked clean and a plate of bread—sliced. A press of your fingers found that it was warm, too. Clever incentive to get you to eat and drink something that was likely laced to keep you compliant. 

But it wasn’t as if you could get worse anyway, so you ate the bread while it was still warm and downed it with the water. 

Just then, you spotted rippling shadows at the bars of your cell. Watching you. Unbound, you could easily warm the bars of the cell and bend them just enough to get yourself out. But not with the shadows there. 

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself, shuffling to sit in the corner. Stared at the shadows—though it was a funny thing, since you weren’t quite sure where you were supposed to look, but you were sure they were entirely aware of you anyway. 

“Tell your master,” you began quietly, “that nobody will be coming for me. And that it’s no use for them to keep me here.” 

The shadows seemed to pause. Then a coil of them reached out and easily unlatched the lock, the sound of wheels rolling on stone echoing through the dungeon as they pushed the bars aside. 

You were wary of their actions. It had to be some sort of test or trick. There was no way they—or he’d—let you go so easily. Was there? 

Sitting there, you watched the shadows. They didn’t move, remaining by the now-opened bars. If you made a run for it, would they catch you and drag you back? Dangle freedom in front of your face just to cruelly remove it once again, toying with you the way their master seemed to so enjoy? 

Enough time had passed while considering the suspicious offer of freedom for you to realise nothing you ate had been laced. Perhaps they’d realised you really weren’t worth anything to trade. 

The thought was a pin in your heart, but you could do nothing about it except help yourself. 

You wrapped the blanket tighter over your shoulders and stood. The shadows didn’t react. You didn’t make a run for it, knowing you wouldn’t be able to outrun them. Instead, you just headed straight out. 

But at the bars, a mild, curious shadow curled around your wrist. The touch wasn’t heavy at all, but the sensation that came with it brought you crumbling to your knees, your grip on the blanket slipping. You didn’t even register the pain as your already-scraped knees hit the ground; with all your concentration focused on trying to breathe through the phantom hands that seemed to close around your lungs. 

Deep breaths seemed to calm your racing heart and bring oxygen back into your lungs again after a moment. Your hand clung tightly to a bar of the cell gate, knuckles white. 

You weren’t graced with the time to collect yourself or your thoughts when your hands flew to your chest. 

Nails digging into the shift. Scratching at the fabric. All in an attempt to gouge the unfamiliar feeling out of your body. Willing to excavate your heart if it meant removing the firm bond that linked you to him.

“Stop,” you wailed. The shadows, not expecting such a reaction from you, were unsure.

It was a string of fate, all right. One with a hook in your soul and the rope tight around your neck like a noose. 

The fabric gave. You clawed at your chest, leaving ugly red lines. Skin tore easily. Soon there was blood under your nails and the promise of flesh. 

Trembling, you cried out. You didn’t know what hurt more—the bond, or your self-inflicted pain. 

“Stop, make it stop…”

The shadows intervened. Some gently embraced your wrists, urging you to stop. Others wrapped around the tips of your fingers. Preventing you from raking your skin. 

“Stop it!” They held fast even as you attempted to bat them away. You tried to dig your fingers into your sternum, but the shadows around your wrists lightly strayed your actions. 

The other shadows drew the blanket back over your shoulders, rubbed your back, dried your tears, and smoothed your hair. 

He had to know, for his shadows to be here, you realised. Even more it made you want to swat at them, but they seemed to adamant on caring for you. If this was his attempted apology…

“Make it go away,” you hiccuped. “Make it go away! Stop, stop, I don’t want this…”

Disgust and nausea overtook you—quite promptly, you lurched over, bile and blood rising in your throat. 

This was the male the Cauldron chose? 

Your torn skin stung, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you emptied the contents of your stomach on the stone floor. At least your hair was held back. 

You weren’t sure how long this continued to happen—you may have passed out, because when you got ahold of yourself again you were leaning on a wall, and the shadows had another glass of water for you. 

They raised it higher, offering it to you. 

Shaky fingers closed around the glass. You used it to wash the taste out of your mouth until you could only imagine the metallic tang behind your teeth. 

Your head hurt. Your chest hurt. 

You remained there as the bond festered into something sickly within your body, then decided that that was enough of moping. Standing, your hand shot out for balance—finding the grimy wall that made you grimace. Stomach churning, fingers trembling, you threw another glance at the shadows that hovered by the open gate of the cell. They fluttered unthreateningly, one of them even pushing the door open further. Go on, they seemed to whisper. 

A chill spread through your bones, but whether from the cold of the dungeon or the flickering, unwanted awareness in your heart you were unsure. Either way, you tugged the blanket tighter around your shoulders, wincing as your hands brushed the self-inflicted mess over your sternum. 

With another glance at the suspicious shadows, you slowly trod out of the cell. The shadows remained still. Another cautious step. Still no movement. Once you were a comfortable few paces away from the cell, you made a run for it—only for the shadows to chase after you. You knew they could outrun you, yet they never seemed to lay a tendril on you; only hovering by your elbows. 

Following the light, you emerged in—a library? What seemed to be priestesses had taken on the role of librarians, not batting an eye at you even as you made your way through the tome-filled shelves. Ahead of you, the shadows snaked a path to an exit. Or a trap. You ignored them, swapping your blanket for a robe snatched off the back of a chair.  

There were so many sets of stairs. The shadows returned to you as you blindly chose one, thick material of the robes bunched in a fist as you ran up the steps. It gave way to a tidy antechamber, a door ajar at one end and double doors wide open at the other. A flash of movement caught your eye through the crack of the former door. 

Your chest tugged. 

Sensing your presence in his antechamber, the spymaster came barrelling through the door. A gasp escaped your lips as you backed up. Bloodshot eyes took you in. With every step you took away from him, he took a smaller one towards you. 

He could feel your intentions—just as you were about to bolt, a hoarse “Wait” glued your feet to the marble floor. 

“I didn’t know,” his voice cracked, wide eyes welling with tears. His knees hit the floor with a thud. “I swear on the Cauldron, I didn’t fucking know—I’m sorry, please, please—” 

“No,” you said firmly. “I don’t care. Every breath I take will be in rejection of this bond; till the day I die I will remember how you violated me. May the Mother bless me with the knowledge of your eternal guilt and suffering for laying your filthy hands on me.” 

With each word, you could see the light drain from those hazel eyes, silent tears streaming down his rugged face. “I’m—”

“I’m not done. To anyone who asks, both you and I will deny the existence of the bond. You will not say a word of it to anybody.” 

Your demands were just that—a strict order. But when the male agreed brokenly, “Deal”—it was secured as an agreement. 

His mistake was recognised too late. With your statement being sealed into a pact, you pushed your heavy sleeve up as you felt, in horror, the sensation of pinpricks crawling around your wrist and forearm. In its wake was dark ink in a coil of thorns. A choked noise from the spymaster—singalling his identical mark—confirmed your suspicions. 

A bargain tattoo. 

As if you needed anything else to bind you to the kneeling spymaster. You let the sleeve fall to cover your arm again, looking down your nose at him. He was a mess, hunching and wings drooping with his red-rimmed eyes and black locks messy from worrying his hands through. 

He brought his ruin upon himself.

Again, as you turned, came another croaky “Wait”. He cleared his throat twice before speaking. “It’s almost impossible for you to leave.” 

“I can winnow.” I am not staying here with you. 

“The– wards. You have to jump before you can do that.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “And how can I trust you are not asking me to jump to my death?”

A pained sound left his throat. “Please…believe me. I want no harm to come to you. There’s a stairwell as well, but the ten thousand steps require incredible mental fortitude…” The way he spoke sounded as if it hurt him to have you leave him. Perhaps the stories of fae males feeling the bond more strongly meant it did. 

“I will leave however I want. I do not wish to speak to you.”

Deep, ripping regret and self-loathing echoed down the bond. You shoved it aside and turned to leave with his shadows continuing to trail you. 

Attempts to winnow out on your way to finding a balcony proved it impossible. Standing by a balcony balustrade, you looked down. Sparse clouds drifted across the rocky mountain the house was built into, overlooking the city below. 

You were shaking from weariness and fear as you gathered the robes and stepped onto the balustrade. Waiting a moment too late to winnow would have your brains splattered across the rocks. 

Following a sigh, you stepped off the balustrade. 

Keeping the winnowing channel of your mind open, all you could do was wait as gravity waited to welcome you by kissing your cheeks with harsh wind. 

As soon as the wards faltered, you were sucked into the warm whirlwind of darkness. 

In your mind you pictured the red and gold forests of Autumn. But this drained, you couldn’t winnow across courts—especially not one so far from Night. You remembered a hazy image of a forest in Night you’d seen once. Of course, there was the risk of not returning properly to your body, but it was your only shot. 

Carefully gathering your thoughts, you were lucky when you were spat out onto damp earth. The sun was still up, thank the Mother—but it wouldn’t be for long. You needed to ignore the pull in your chest and find your bearings. 

It wasn’t long before you were kneeling by a stream, lips wet with drink and soles aching from walking barefoot. 

A questioning call of your name came from behind you.

The moment you made eye contact with your eldest brother, your facade crumbled. With sure steps, Eris made his way over to you. 

You sagged with relief as he knelt beside you, relieved by the familiar comfort of his presence. Though neither of you were particularly expressive through physical means, the pat on your back unlodged something in your chest. The same steady reassurance you’d known since childhood. 

“I thought— thought you weren’t coming for me,” you got out through hiccups as he helped you to stand. 

“You were being kept in Velaris,” Eris explained, “we couldn’t get in; but did you really think we’d just leave you there? …Don’t cry, godsdamnit, I don’t know what to do when you cry.” 

Despite everything, you let out a watery laugh. 

He was midway through telling you how your other brothers were looking for you as well, saying that he’d winnow the both of you home first, when he went silent, noticing the loitering shadows. Through your less-teary eyes now, you glanced sideways at your brother. 

His expression was murderous. “What did that bastard do to you?”

You took in a shuttered breath. His eyes swept over you, landing on the blood crusted beneath your nails. 

“Tell me what he did.”

“Eris,” a sob bubbled. 

At your reluctance to speak, his lips formed a grim line. “We’ll get you home and cleaned up first. Then we’ll talk about it.”

Back at the Forest House, each inhale had your ribs pressing tight against the bandages wrapped around your chest. You’d scrubbed yourself raw in the bath, making sure there wasn’t a trace left of the Shadowsinger’s scent on your body. All that remained were the shadows, the tattoo, and the bond.

Now you sat in bed, nursing a bowl of warm broth while Eris paced. Once you were done speaking—careful to avoid any mention about the bond or the tattoo, Eris stood still. “This is an insult to Autumn honour. His actions will not be overlooked.” 

“What will you do?” 

Eris was silent for a few moments. Then, quietly but not any less intimidatingly, “He will answer accordingly for what he did to you. I shall invoke a blood duel.” 

The shadows flinched.

“No!” You cleared your throat, realising your argument sounded as if it was in the Shadowsinger’s defence. “I mean, it’s not worth it. I don’t want you getting hurt because of this.” 

“I will not let some bastard get away with assaulting my blood!” 

You thought of the spymaster, begging on his knees. The acute regret zinging down the bond. He meant his apology, but Eris wouldn’t know or believe that. 

And the bond. Even if your brother were to initiate a blood duel, mating bonds cannot be broken in death. Eris would win, and the bond would remain, weighing you down in the Shadowsinger’s death; or Eris would die in vain. 

“You can’t do it.”

“You doubt me,” came his dry disappointment. 

“If anyone were to fight him to the death, it should be me.” But it wouldn’t be a fair fight. Not at all, if you knew the spymaster would refuse to lay a finger on you again. 

“I will not let him hurt you. Again. Unless you have better ideas?”

You watched Eris silently, unable to voice the thoughts behind your eyes. “N–no…”

“I shall dispatch a missive.” 

The shadows turned to face you as one, watching without eyes, as Eris left your chambers. 

Two weeks later, your party of three waited in a lambent forest clearing. You, Eris, and another one of your brothers, Brandt, here to play mediator. With you at the head, the three of you stood a formidable trio; you and Brandt in ornate Autumn clothing, and Eris in shined silver armour. 

Your group watched in disdain as the Spymaster of the Night Court approached—with Night’s own war general, trudging through orange undergrowth. Even from fifty feet away, the Shadowsinger’s posture was already defeated. Brandt sneered. 

As he neared, you could see he was dressed in casual leathers. He was either incredibly confident or incredibly stupid. The two Illyrians ceased their conversation once within your earshot. 

The bond hummed, a living thing between you two. Azriel swallowed thickly. His face paled at the sight of his own shadows guarding you. From him. You avoided his eyes. Tugged on your sleeve to make sure it was hiding the tattoo. 

Brandt stepped forward between the two parties and cleared his throat. “Let it be known that Eris Vanserra, heir to the Autumn Court, has invoked the ancient rite of the blood duel against Azriel Shadowsinger of the Night Court. Let the accused answer and state whether he accepts or refuses.”

“I accept.” Azriel’s voice sounded as if it were hanging by a fraying thread.

Eris unfastened his red cloak, folding it neatly before tossing it to the side where you and Cassian moved to stand apart. 

“The grievance has been heard,” Brandt intoned, “the challenge has been accepted. Let the duel commence.” 

Both males stood at the ready, though the spymaster’s stance seemed limp. Eris wasted no time in surging forward, his fist connecting with Azriel’s jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways. Azriel staggered a step; blood bloomed on his lower lip. 

He didn’t raise a hand to strike back. Eris faltered momentarily, but his fist flashed out again, catching Azriel square across the bridge of his nose. 

“Azriel,” Cassian yelled. “What are you doing?” 

With a start, Eris launched himself at the male in question. They hit the ground hard—Eris on top—landing a series of blows to which Azriel only responded with a groan. 

“Fight me, damn you!” A devastating crunch followed. You winced at the distress that shot down the bond. “Fight back!”

A broken sob followed. Cassian, slack-jawed, looked ready to intervene. Brandt scoffed, murmuring something under his breath. 

“Have you no honour?” A wheeze was elicited from Azriel at Eris’s knee pressing against his sternum. “You have insulted my court. Violated my sister. Do you not wish to defend yourself?” 

“I can’t,” he said tremulously. Tears streamed down his temples; blood streamed down the sides of his mouth. 

“Are you mocking me with your inaction, Shadowsinger?” 

“I can’t do it,” Azriel repeated, weeping. 

Tensely, Cassian called, “Azriel, don’t be stupid.”

Eris’s eyes were ablaze. Fisting a hand in Azriel’s hair, he slammed his head back onto the ground. 

“Azriel!” 

The spymaster’s teary eyes caught yours, uttering your name. “I’m sorry,” he gargled out unintelligibly through a mouthful of blood. Or at least, you thought that was what he said, with the wave of his guilt that overcame you.

“That will not change what you did.” Eris’s statement was emphasised with another hit to the ground. 

The third slam had Azriel’s eyes falling shut, his hair matted from the pooling blood. Cassian roared. The bond shuddered. Yet Eris was relentless. 

“Eris,” you cautioned shakily, watching the blood seep into the earth. “Eris, stop—you’re going to kill him–”

“Yes.” His tone was too unbothered for the way he was repeatedly driving Azriel’s head into the rocky dirt. “He accepted the duel knowing what they are for.”

“Eris, enough–”

“Close your eyes if it bothers you.” 

“Listen to your sister, please,” Cassian cried.

“Eris, you have to stop…” You exhaled before raising your voice firmly. “Eris Vanserra, by my right as the wronged party, I grant mercy and insist this blood duel be ended.” 

Eris’s blazing eyes narrowed at you. “Why.” 

You shook your head. Eris released Azriel’s hair and slowly stood—Cassian rushed over immediately. 

“You are defending him? Is it out of guilt, sister?”

“No, no. I…”

“Explain.”

You gulped uncertainly with another small shake of your head. “I can’t.”

“I am sick of hearing those two words today–”

“There’s no point. In killing him—it won’t change anything,” you replied. “It won’t undo what he’s done, and–”

“You must be out of your mind,” Eris barked a sardonic chuckle. “First you stop the duel, then protect him, defend him…perhaps next you’ll inform me the bastard is your mate.” 

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. 

“No,” Eris was saying, his anger melting into dismay. “No, no, no. Are you bonded? Tell me you are not bonded.”

Even Cassian and Brandt were looking over now. You stuttered. 

Eris pressed on. “Answer me. Is he your mate?”

“I– I cannot tell you.” Your throat tightened. “If you ask…I am forced to lie.” 

🏷️: @velarisdusk @wildflowermooon @azriel-shadowsingerr @secretsicanthideanymore @a-courtof-azriel 

🏷️: @sizzlingstarlightsky @jem2299 @ahaha0246 @fourthwing4ever

🏷️: @katarina1224 @lilah-asteria @morningdewdrops @ratgirl2020 @wildfloweroutlaw

🏷️: @witchmoon10 @cherryjain17 @okaytrashpanda @scarsandallaz @chicaconfundidaycuriosa

🏷️: @serena-capella @chicaconfundidaycuriosa @potatoheartsyou @megumi437

𓏲 say ‘i’ if you wanna be added to taglist, ‘r’ if you wanna be removed 💗

Copyright @halo-hanging on Tumblr

[halo-hanging]

halo-hanging comeback soon trust 🙏🏼

[halo-hanging]

sjm i need to have a talk with you about the plotholes in this series

[halo-hanging]

halo-hanging comeback soon trust 🙏🏼

[shnehollander]

Love fanfiction. wish i could write it

[crowttore]

Getting your face cradled by hands that kill>>>>>

[lesspopped]

affirmation: I am capable of finishing the works of pornographic fanfiction I start writing

[vamplire]

happy international bat appreciation day!

🦇🦇🦇

[princessofvelaris]

Sub!Eris

Sub!Eris who spends all day running the ruthless and demanding Autumn Court, just wanting to crawl into his pretty wife’s lap and bury his face into her side for comfort

Sub!Eris who loves it when you run your fingers through his red hair, whispering words of affirmation, as he closes his eyes gently and hums against your skin

Sub!Eris who doesn’t notice at first when your hands start traveling lower and lower down his body, grasping for his belt and freeing him of his trousers

Sub!Eris who shifts to give you easier access, eyes watching as you wrap a soft hand around his growing erection, teasing him until he starts whining and growing impatient

Sub!Eris who can hardly hold it together when you climb on top of him, pinning his hands above his head as you sink yourself down onto him with sadistic gleam.

Sub!Eris who loves to feel the weight of your body on top of his, grinding and moving against him tauntingly, closing his eyes as he lets you take advantage of his every weakness

Sub!Eris who nearly finishes before you allow him to, the words “Such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” ringing through his mind, as he craves to be praised and rewarded by you

Sub!Eris who can’t take it any longer as he watches the sweat glisten down your body in the afternoon sunlight, tits bouncing in his face, as he whimpers beneath you and finally decides to let go

Sub!Eris who was in for a round tortuous, merciless punishment after he recovered, having learned the hard way that there consequences for not listening to his demanding wife

─────────── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──────────

A/N: feeling freaky today, had to write something about my lil submissive boy toy. he deserves the world <3 lmk what you think!

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Azriel has the SLUTTIEST HIPS???? The most sensual, the most biteable??? He goes around in leathers and scale-like armour, but he comes home and wears these low-slung, cotton lounging pants that just HANG off his hips like they’ll fall off any minute. Such shape, such curve. You can see the DIPS. Dark hair dusts his NAVEL and trails down beneath those pants. Sometimes, first thing in the morning, he stands shirtless at the window and his muscles RIPPLE??? He absentmindedly RUBS HIS TUMMY while thinking about what to eat??? And his hips just exist there, begging to be LICKED????!!!!

[acourtofwhatthefuck]

Vehemently standing by this!!!!!!!!

[velarisdusk]

happy trail azriel…………….

[aliensfromhell]

[halo-hanging]

what do you think are azriel’s kinks?

also you changed your name to a lucien phrase, that made me wonder if you will ever write x reader fics of him?

as for the Lucien question probably not any more likely than it is currently i just liked the quote haha

and as for a very incomplete list Azriel's kinks:

Choking: he loves having his hand around your throat, whether it be squeezing during sex or just resting there in your sleep—just as a collar to remind you you’re his. 

Primal play: as the hunter, being able to let go of himself in those moments, with his mind narrowed in only on you.

Mommy kink: as mentioned, with his mommy issues should we even be surprised. He probably doesn't even know he's into it, but the first time it slips out...

[halo-hanging]

thinking of azriel and cassian play-brawling but someone one ending on top of the other shirtless and sweaty … … heavy breathing … eye contact …

[halo-hanging]

kidnapper!azriel kinda reminds me of sins and shadows!!

didn't think of that hahaha

[halo-hanging]

Kidnapper!Azriel has been on my mind recently...

Mature content after the cut

Kidnapper!Azriel who’s had his eye on you for weeks. His sweet little mate—not that you know that, but that’s okay. Either way, you’re going to be his. He presses a sedative-laced cloth over your mouth while you sleep, not wanting to hurt you unnecessarily. 

You wake up on a soft bed, bleary-eyed and propping yourself up. There’s a winged male sitting by the bed, looking concerned. 

He’d taken care to decorate the area in your favourite colour—weeks of stalking you beforehand gave him plenty of material on you. 

On the bedside table sits a glass of water, which he quickly moves to offer to you. He doesn’t seem harmful, so you nearly accept it, but shifting yourself brings your attention to the iron cuff around your ankle, chained to the bed. 

He hastens to reassure you, “It’s not what it looks like…” 

Kidnapper!Azriel who hauls you over his lap when you stare at the door for too long. Even after the first week, you never dare to try it, also because it’s latched with some sort of magic you can’t figure out. 

He flips your skirt up, revealing pretty panties that he’d bought for you. With his leg locked over yours and a hand on your back, you can’t even attempt to squirm away. Wedgieing them to expose your bum, he lands a slap to a cheek. “Pretty girl, it’s for your own good.” Another stinging slap has you yelping. “Don’t you trust me to take care of you?”

Kidnapper!Azriel who dotes on you endlessly, making sure you have everything you could want and more—except freedom. Pretty clothes, books…anything material you ask for, he’ll deliver. Of course, however, he makes you model all the clothes for him. 

He loves to bring you lingerie, making you spin and show off. Though shy, you can’t disobey him. Not when it gets you a slap across your face before you’re grabbed by the cheeks, being asked, “Who do you belong to?” His grip tightens if you don’t respond fast enough—because you will answer, and correctly. “Exactly. So act like it.” 

Kidnapper!Azriel who loves when you’re crying. Be it from homesickness or his hands striking your body, he still gets those puffy lips, shiny eyes, and flushed cheeks. 

He can never help himself from bringing your hand to his crotch or pushing his hips into you while you’re sobbing, asking, “Feel how hard your tears get me? My baby’s so pretty like this…”

Kidnapper!Azriel who cuts fresh fruit and hand-feeds them to you, pushing the bite-sized cubes past your lips while you sit in his lap.

Kidnapper!Azriel who spots you trying to escape one day. Trying to loosen the window latch by your bed. It’s a large window, giving you a nice view of the woods outside of the cabin he’s keeping you in, but tightly hinged so it only opens a few inches to let the breeze in. 

You freeze as soon as you register his sudden presence behind you. Turning to face him, you hide the hairpins you’d been using behind your back. “I’m just…trying to fix it…”

He doesn’t even respond verbally, landing a blow across your cheek. As you begin to cry, he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, pretty girl, but sometimes you leave me no choice. Is it so hard to be obedient?”

A rough hand grabs you by the hair and bends you over the bed, pulling your skirt up and panties down. “Stupid little girl. How many times do I have to tell you it’s not safe for you out there?”

After your punishments, he cradles you in his lap and wipes the tears off your face with hands that weren’t this gentle just minutes earlier. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s for your own good, yeah? I don’t wanna see you pulling any stupid fucking stunts like that again.” 

Kidnapper!Azriel who, when sleeping with you, has a heavy leg over your hip and a loose grasp around your throat; he’s not letting you get away. Even the slightest shift has his grip tightening and letting out a deep, sleepy warning growl into your ear. 

Kidnapper!Azriel who sinks into you from above, his arms caging you in. Kissing your cheeks softly as tears leak down your temples. “Don’t worry, my little love. One day you’ll learn to love me like I do you.” 

[readychilledwine]

Heartbeat

Summary - One bed doesn't work well for 3 illyrians and their mate.

Warnings - Azriel's slutty sweatpants, mentions of wing clipping but nothing graphic, swearing

A/n - Anyone else wonder how any quad would handle a one bed situation?

Written for @polysjmweek day three: Will there be enough room?

SJM Poly+ Week Masterlist

Master Masterlist

“Oh you have got to be shitting me,” Azriel grumbled. “Rhys, you were supposed to ask for 2 beds.”

“I did,” The High Lord pulled off the hood that did nothing to disguise him, prompting a giggle from you and Cassian. The look of annoyance he gave the two of you had you hiding your face in Cassian's chest. “I suppose you two think this is very funny.”

“Very,” Cassian chuckled. “Azriel is acting like the 4 of us haven't been sharing a bed for, what, 200 years?” Cassian's hands guided you into the room, setting your bag down. “Go bathe first.”

216 years, you would never correct Cassian, and they still ensured you showered first in these situations. It wasn't the first time you four found yourselves in a rundown inn seeking shelter after a rough mission. It wouldn't be the last either. Peeling off the sweat and dirt-caked clothing made your skin crawl. You four had been hunting Illyrians that had crossed Rhysand for the last time. Your husband was tired of the clippings and the fighting.

All three of your husbands were, actually.

It had started with you and Cassian. The bond had snapped when he saw you on the Summer Court's pleasure barge, per his banishment from your home. He had introduced you to Azriel a few days later, the fight between them now being the cause of the infamous sand castle collapse that shook the Summer Court. Not wanting to live without them, you left when they did, arriving at the Night Court and causing another fight the second you laid eyes on Rhysand. The four of you worked hard to make the dynamic flow, but once it fell into place, the three of them all admitted their lives and connection made so much more sense.

“Do you need help, sweetheart,” a purr made you pause, hands moving away from the corset you wore for extra protection. Rhysand began to work on the ties. “We are attempting to figure out the bed situation,” his voice was slightly annoyed. “With two males with wings-”

“Baby, I can sleep on the floor,” you offered.

“Over my dead body,” his eyes met yours in the mirror. “If we move the bed to the center of the room, we can have Azriel and Cassian take the outsides-”

“And squish you in the middle with me on the floor,” your voice was meant to be firm, but the relief as he finally finished unlacing your corset made it more of a relaxed sigh. “You can't handle sleeping on floors or the couch. your knees will get stiff, and then you will become grumpy.”

He nipped at your ear playfully, “I do not get grumpy.” He walked with you toward the tub, arms around your waist as he hugged you from behind. He kept you practically glued to him, turning the faucet on, “I fear the water won't get warm.”

“It's okay. One cold bath won't kill me,” your fingers traced his forearm tattoos. “We get to go home tomorrow, right?”

He nodded, “Azriel found and took care of the last group while you and Cassian were doing whatever you two were doing.”

You leaned back to narrow your eyes, “Very serious mission things.” A lie, and Rhysand knew, but he wouldn't push it. “We were critical to the success of this operation.” Not a lie.

A dark brown lifted as his smirk began to form. “I will pretend I didn't just see a flash of what you two were doing in the woods today. Bathe while I get the bed figured out.” He left after smacking your ass, laughing as he did.

You sunk into the water, the harsh drag of wood on wood outside the door. The rules of your missions typically involved bathing quickly so you could all wash up, but with the water cold, there was little reason not to soak longer than you normally would. Once you were chilled to the bones, you stepped out and drained the tub, cringing at the sight of the dirty water.

A real bath, preferably with 3 sets of hands helping you, would be a must once you were back in Velaris. You wrapped yourself in the towel, walking out to where Azriel was situating things. “And where did the other two go?”

“They claim food,” he murmured. “Rhysand said the water is cold.” His hand reached for your hair, twisting a lock. “Are you cold?”

“A bit.”

“Start a fire if you'd like,” the tone of his voice was soft and almost musical, as it always was when he relaxed. His lips were warm on your forehead as he went to bathe, leaving you to try to heat the cold room with the small hearth. You studied the bed once you had it going, changing into your last clean pair of leggings and finding one of Cassian's shirts to wear.

There was no possible way all four of you would fit. Your bed in Velaris was custom-made, allowing all three males to stretch out their wings. That wouldn't be possible here. Rhysand would have to keep his tucked in with his magic, Azriel and Cassian would have to let theirs rest on the floor.

You had a plan. One they'd hate. You grabbed a blanket from the corner of the room and a pillow and laid in front of the fireplace. They'd believe you fell asleep warming your skin back up and hopefully, they'd let you sleep there. Maybe that would allow the three of them some sort of comfort. You shut your eyes, the warmth so enjoyable it lulled your mind into relaxing.

Cassian and Rhysand walked back into the room, Cassian quick to notice your form curled up under a blanket. “We should have just pushed and flew her home,” he told Rhysand. He kneeled down next to you, waving the questionable soup in front of your nose. Your tummy grumbled, forcing you to open your eyes from the sleepy state. “Eat.”

You took the bowl, sitting up to see Azriel coming out and Cassian motioning for Rhysand to go in. Azriel's sleeping pants hung loose on his hips as he grabbed a bowl as well. His waist looked fsr more interesting than the grey and clumpy soup, but you resisted the temptation. “Like bathing in a damned river,” he muttered to Cassian. “What are you doing on the floor,” he glanced at you.

“Sleeping,” your face, as you took a spoonful of soup, made both males pause.

“Can't be picky, sweetheart,” Azriel said softly. “Picky starves.”

“I know.”

Rhysand took the fastest bath you think he'd ever done, shivering as he walked back out in his towel and began to change. He said nothing as he took his first bite of food, nor did Azriel. Cassian had got to take his turn by the time you looked up. Once he was back, his own pants did not rest as low as Azriel's. He glanced at you. “That is my shirt,” his face was bright as he took you in, the material hanging almost drowning you in it. “But yes, you can wear it.”

All eyes were on that single bed. Rhysand appeared to be calculating the space, as if he could ensure his little plan would work. You laid back on the floor, stretching and then curling back to the fireplace. Wordlessly defiance was something you specialized in, but the three of them weren't stupid, and it didn't take them long to begin situating.

Azriel wanted the spot that'd allow him to lay facing the door, always on high alert when your little pack found itself away from home. Cassian took the side that allowed him to face the window, another watchful eye to where any threats may come. Rhysand was forced between them, a silent conversation before Cassian walked over and picked you up.

That's how you found yourself laying on Rhysand. One of his arms held your hips as the other moved to cup the back of your head. One wing rested on the two of you like a weighted blanket, then another. “Go to sleep,” Rhysand whispered to you. “You may not realize this, but you are trapped.” There was no response from you, no argument. The soft sound of your breathing was the only thing coming from you as you laid on what would now Be your favorite bed.

“Next time, we will fly home,” Azriel stated.

Cassian immediately agreed, “This isn't fair to y/n.” They both glanced at Rhysand when he didn't respond, only to find him asleep. “Or maybe it wasn't fair to us,” Cassian added.

“Thinking it definitely wasn't fair to us,” Azriel chuckled. “He worked this to his advantage.”

“He always does,” Cassian said. His voice was getting deeper and slower. “Always does.” It did not take long for the two of them to fall asleep, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of a dying hearth and four hearts beating in sync.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

[velarisdusk]

This Tempest, Ours

Rhysand x Reader

summary: On a rare night alone in the House of Wind, the worst storm in decades strikes. It wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t make you so uneasy. Luckily, the House isn’t as empty as you thought. word count: 11.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, there's only one sleeping bag, y/n is scared of storms, very briefly insinuated tamlin x reader, daemati-use, wet dreams, lovemaking for the most part but we get rough for a sec ] author's note: we’re gonna assume mental shields stay up during sleep…. yeah... ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a veil of dreammist & a dash of blaze enhanced with lover's knot & starlight crystals stirred thank you anon for the request!!!! i'm finding i really enjoy writing friends to lovers this is so sweet :") anyway i hope you like this one!! <33

The cold in the Winter Court didn’t seep into your bones—it gnawed at them. Gnawed like it had teeth and purpose and the unrelenting patience of a predator that knew you’d wear down eventually.

You’d stopped pretending to sleep an hour ago, after the lantern blew out. The wind outside the tent moaned like a creature in mourning, threading through the seams and catching in the corners of the thin canvas until it felt like the whole thing might lift and carry you off with it. You pressed deeper into the bundled cloak beneath you, trying not to shiver too obviously. You failed.

You were wrapped in more layers than you could count—thermal base, thick wool, a coat heavy enough to double as a blanket—but it still wasn’t enough. Even Rhys, normally indifferent to climate or discomfort, had resorted to cloaks and furs, the sharp line of his jaw the only part of him visible from beneath the hood pulled low. 

Behind you, Rhysand exhaled, sharp and irritated. “You’re shaking so hard I can feel it through the ground.”

You didn’t open your eyes. “You always this broody when you’re forced to keep all that power on a leash?”

A beat. Then—“Keep talking and I’ll show you how not broody I can be.”

You snorted, cracking open one eye. “That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“I’m cold. I’m tired. I haven’t let my magic out at all in twelve days. Give me a break.”

You finally rolled over to face him, the dim moonlight filtering through the tent’s fabric casting his features in pale blue and silver. There was a tension around his mouth, in the fine line between his brows. He hadn’t looked truly relaxed since your boots first crunched through the snow at the border. 

The artifact—known only in whispers as the amulet of Larethine—was said to suppress magic so completely that even a High Lord’s power would snuff out like a candle. Rumored to have vanished after the war centuries ago, it resurfaced in scattered reports. They all pointed to the same abandoned temple buried somewhere in the Winter Court’s northern edge, where the snowfall was so constant it blanketed even sound. Rhysand intended to retrieve it quietly—before word spread and the wrong hands reached it first. So here you were. Nearly two weeks with no magic, no contact, no help. Just the two of you, and a map worn soft at the creases.

Rhysand’s power coiled beneath his skin like a thing alive, begging to be freed. But Kallias’ wards draped over the court like a net of ice, intricate and merciless. The second he even brushed the world with a tendril of it, you’d be caught.

You hadn’t expected it to wear on him like this. 

“Your pack,” he said after a pause. “Still soaked?”

You winced, remembering the misstep near the creek a few days ago, then nodded. He shifted. “Come here.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your pack, and everything in it—including your sleeping bag—is useless. It won’t dry in this weather. Either we share mine or I watch you freeze to death. I vote the former.”

You hesitated, the silence between you swelling into something tight and uncertain. But then another gust of wind screamed past the tent, and pride gave way to practicality. 

“Fine.”

You crawled across the narrow space and slipped into the sleeping bag beside him. It was cramped—painfully so—and the moment you settled, his body pressed to yours, impossibly warm. You turned onto your side instinctively, back to his chest. You could feel every breath he took, feel the slow thump of his heart against your spine, the barest hint of muscle shifting when his hand curved around your middle, settling just beneath the edge of your ribs, his palm held steady against you.

Behind you, something rustled, and then the faint brush of membrane—Rhys shifting, one wing sliding from the sleeping bag in a slow stretch over you. 

“Don’t you dare,” you whispered. “That thing freezes and falls off, we’re really fucked.”

He snorted quietly. “It has excellent circulation, thanks.”

“Put it away.”

Another rustle of fabric as he tucked the wing back inside.

“Warmer now?” he said dryly. 

“Mm.”

The silence this time wasn’t uncomfortable. You listened to the wind, to the soft crinkle of fabric with each small movement, to the quiet hum of his presence behind you. It was startling, how much space he took up without speaking, how much lighter the silence felt now that he was pressed against you. 

His breath stirred at the hair at your nape. You tensed, then forced yourself to relax again, inching away a fraction. He followed. 

“Rhys.”

“What.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

A pause. Then, shamelessly: “It’s where your neck is.”

You huffed, and he chuckled—a rare sound lately. Low and warm, it rolled through your back where your bodies touched, and you had to fight not to smile. 

After a long moment, his voice came again, quieter. 

“We’ll find it tomorrow.”

You gave a small nod, felt more than seen.

He shifted behind you, the subtle movement bringing his chest closer to your back, breath skimming your hair. “Then we get out. We go home.”

You let out a quiet breath, just enough to fog the air in front of you.

“You always this optimistic at night?”

He hummed low in his throat. “Maybe you bring it out in me.”

That pulled a small, tired smile from you.

“Must be the frostbite. You’re delirious.”

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested at your waist.

“Mm. That, or the cold makes me honest.”

Something in your chest ached—not sharp, but deep. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle soft around you.

Sleep found you curled into his warmth, his hand resting at your waist, his breath a gentle rhythm against your skin. And in the morning, with the air sharp in your lungs and the scent of pine still clinging to the chill, that warmth lingered over your skin.

The cold in the Winter Court hadn’t gone with the morning light. You’d found Larethine two days after that—tucked beneath the roots of an ancient ice-locked tree, a whisper of power veined through crystal. The mission had ended days later in a quiet exhale, a long journey home trailing behind it. It had been nearly three weeks since then. Long enough for bruises to fade, for muscle to stop aching.

Still, the cold seemed to have burrowed itself into your bones, the bite of it still there, even in the warmth of your bed in the City of Starlight. 

You woke to the sound of wind clawing at the windows. A storm, full and furious, had settled over Velaris—the kind that turned the Sidra restless and made even the stars hide. Thunder cracked a beat later, loud enough to shake the walls.

Your heart was already racing, breath shallow and tight, at odds with the warmth wrapped around you. You lay there a moment, still and listening, the storm rattling through your bones like it had teeth again. They’d always scraped at your nerves, left them humming like struck strings. 

The covers were a tangled mess around your hips, shoved down in sleep. Your T-shirt had ridden up high, bunched beneath your ribs, and when you looked down, you caught a glimpse of bare stomach, underwear, the slope of one thigh kicked over the sheets. You shifted, tugged the hem back down, fingers moving slow and clumsy like they weren’t entirely yours.

You remembered bits and pieces of the dream, not that it’d been much different from the others you’d had since that night. Tonight, he hadn’t been content just to hold you. His hands wandered. His mouth dragged slowly over your skin, coaxing sounds you’d never let slip in daylight. You woke slick between your thighs, the ache lodged deep and stubborn. 

Another crash of thunder rolled across the rooftops. You pushed the blankets off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. The house was magicked to stay warm; your skin was slick with sweat, and still, you felt chilled. 

You didn’t think about it. Didn’t bother with pants or slippers. Just padded into the hall in your T-shirt—soft, worn thin, hem brushing mid-thigh and swaying with every step.

The storm pressed against the glass. The quiet inside felt louder for it.

You moved through it automatically, headed for the kitchen. The house was still, shadows long and familiar, but your mind had already drifted somewhere else—somewhere colder.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about that night. Maybe you’d tried to. Maybe you’d told yourself it hadn’t meant anything. But your body remembered. Before your thoughts could catch up, your body remembered—his warmth at your back, the weight of his hand at your waist, the breath at your neck.

That same tension had curled beneath your skin now. You hadn’t realized you missed it until it came back.

The air had gone heavy the moment he touched you, and you hadn’t breathed properly since. You hated how your body still reacted—like it didn’t care what your mind had decided. Like it knew better.

Maybe it did.

You reached the stairs and took them without thought, one hand trailing the banister. The house didn’t creak beneath you. Even your own footsteps felt hesitant, like they didn’t want to disturb the memory.

You’d spent weeks pretending it hadn’t changed anything. That you were still the same. That he was.

You stepped into the kitchen without turning on the faelights. The storm outside pressed at the windows, a steady beat of rain—or maybe snow—smeared against the glass in streaks. Slush, probably.

You moved on instinct, pulled the kettle from its place, filled it from the tap. The cool weight of it settled in your hands, grounding—but not enough.

You set it on the stove and twisted the knob, a faint click giving way to the low hum of magic-warmed coils. Still, your thoughts refused to quiet.

You’d been telling yourself you hadn’t wanted it. That it had just happened. But you remembered leaning into him. You remembered the way your body had reacted—eager, instinctual, like you’d been waiting for it. 

You reached for a mug without looking, fingers curling around the ceramic absently. It was warm from the cupboard’s enchantment, but your skin still felt cold.

You exhaled slowly and leaned your hip against the counter, staring at nothing.

And while the kettle began to warm, your thoughts slipped—quiet and treacherous—back to the tent. But your mind didn’t pull up the truth of that night. Not the soft hush of breath, the shared warmth, the way you’d both kept to yourselves despite how closely you lay. What you remembered instead—what you felt—was the dream you’d had in his arms. The one you hadn’t dared to admit to anyone. 

You remembered the weight of his hand curling around your hip—broad, sure fingers splaying possessively across your skin like he’d always known exactly where to touch you. His thumb pressing just beneath your navel, slow little circles that made your breath catch. His chest, solid and hot, flush against your spine. Each inhale of his drawing your body tighter to his, like he wanted to fit you perfectly between every breath. Like he couldn’t stand the space between you.

And gods, you’d imagined how he’d move. He’d start slow, savoring it. Savoring you, every thrust controlled. He’d want to melt into you, to lose himself in every slick, shivering inch. And the press of him felt so real in your mind that your thighs pressed together without you meaning to.

The slow, deliberate roll of his hips against you, grinding in the dark with maddening restraint. Like he wanted to drag it out. Like he wanted to feel it, not just fuck. 

But it wasn’t like you didn’t have dreams about that, too.

Like the one you’d just awoken from.

Where he wasn’t slow at all. Where he’d pushed you against the window, dragged your panties down with a growl, and dropped to his knees. He devoured you like a male starved. Like he needed it to breathe.

His tongue was relentless, slick and firm, fucking you with slow, torturous precision until your hand flew to your mouth to muffle the cries threatening to tear from your throat. 

And just when your body began to shake, just when you thought you’d collapse—he was rising, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and sinking into you with one long, ruinous thrust that stole every breath from your lungs.

His voice rasped against your ear, all filth and hunger, whispering what he’d do next, what you’d beg for, how good you look, all wet and wanting and his. Every stroke dragged need from you like a confession, torn from your throat in gasps, in whimpers. Every thrust was a claim, a promise, a demand. You shattered on his cock like you’d been made for it—again, and again, and again—until your body blurred at the edges and all you could feel was him.

And then—your name. A low murmur against your throat, reverent and rough at once, like it scraped its way out of him. Like it meant something. Like saying it against your skin was the only prayer he knew.

Almost a whisper. Almost a plea.

Almost—

Lightning split the sky—and thunder followed like a war drum, slamming through the silence hard enough to rattle the windows. 

You flinched, heart in your throat, the mug slipping and knocking against the counter. Goosebumps bloomed across your skin as the thunder faded, but it wasn’t the cold tiles beneath your feet that made your hands shake.

Wasn’t the storm making your chest rise and fall just so.

It was the echo of your name, murmured into your neck.

The ache in your body for something that had never even happened—

But felt, somehow, like it had.

Your breath came fast and shallow, heat rushing to your cheeks in a flush you couldn’t chase away.

Your heart was still hammering when—

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

You jumped. The kettle screamed—when had it even started? The mug nearly slipped again, and you cursed under your breath, scrambling to keep hold of it. 

A flush of panic surged alongside the remnants of arousal—

Glamour. Now.

Your scent vanished in an instant.

You rushed to take the kettle off the burner.

Shields—already up, and you triple-checked them. Reinforced them out of instinct, out of panic. Just in case.

Rhysand stood in the doorway, framed by the faint flicker of lightning beyond the windows. 

Shirtless, his chest bare and skin golden in the dim light from the hall. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Hair mussed, like he’d just gotten out of bed—like he’d just been dreaming too.

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him—not after what you’d been thinking, not with your skin still warm from it. 

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t realize it was whistling—gods, I’ll—”

“You didn’t,” he said, voice low and even. “It was the storm. You’re fine.”

But something in his tone—the careful way he said it—made it feel like  he was only trying to spare you.

You glanced down at the mug in your hand like it might save you. “Right. Okay. Still. Sorry.”

He didn’t move at first. Just watched you, eyes unreadable in the dark. 

Then, quietly: “Storm wake you too?”

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Thought tea might help.”

A flicker of a smile touched his mouth—barely there. “You always brew it with wide eyes and shaking hands?” he asked as he stepped closer, brushing your fingers when he took the mug from your grasp. 

You huffed a soft laugh. “Only when the thunder sounds like it’s about to rip the sky open.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement from him as he slid an arm around your shoulders. Solid. Familiar. Like it belonged there. 

“You know it’s mostly just noise, right?” he murmured. Rhys topped off the water in your mug, grabbed two teabags from the tin, and dropped them into the mug. His arm remained looped around your shoulders, holding you close as he covered the cup with a saucer to let it steep. “Sounds a lot worse than it is.”

You nodded, but your thoughts felt foggy and slow. Maybe it was the storm, or the hour, or the way he still hadn’t let go. The way his arm fit around you so naturally, as if it belonged there. As if it had never left since that night. 

You shouldn’t read into it. It’s just comfort. Just instinct. 

But you can’t stop noticing the warmth of him, steady and close. Can’t stop thinking about how easily he’s always known how to settle you—how natural it feels to lean into him like this.

Your lips press together, and you try not to think about how that same warmth once curled around you in a tent, or what it felt like to wake up in his arms.

His arm shifted, sliding from your shoulders to the small of your back, hand warm and steady as it pressed there. “C’mon,” he said softly, guiding you away from the counter and toward the little breakfast table near the window. He handed you your mug on the way, his fingers brushing yours again. 

You moved without thinking, still wrapped in that dazed hush the storm had settled over everything. You sank into the chair without a word, and with a quiet flick of his fingers, the table filled. A crystal bowl of sugar cubes appeared near your elbow, followed by a small pitcher of warm milk, and even a tiny plate of shortbread cookies that hadn’t been there before. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, the words quiet and full. Rhysand only nodded, moving back to the kettle to make his own.

After some time, you removed the saucer and took a careful sip—still too hot—before setting the mug down. Instead, you watched the steam curling lazily upward, trying not to let your gaze wander to where he stood by the counter. The stretch of muscle across his back. The ink winding over golden skin. The slow flex of his wings as he moved. 

Then, lightly, “Cassian tried to give Azriel a haircut today.”

Your brows lifted. “He didn’t.”

Rhysand’s mouth curved faintly, though the only indication of his humor from where you sat was the soft shake of his shoulders. “He did. Said he could ‘blend the ends’ better than the hairdressers at the Riverfront salon.” He turned slightly toward you, the kettle behind him just starting to bubble.  

You snort. “That’s because Cassian thinks ‘blending’ means cutting in a straight line.”

“Exactly,” Rhys said dryly, just as your fingers reached out—without looking—toward the honey jar at the far end of the counter.

His own hand twitched, summoning it with a flick of magic, smooth as breathing.

“He nearly took a chunk out of one of his wings,” he added, the jar gliding toward you in the same breath.

You caught it mid-air and spooned in a little honey, not missing a beat. “Azriel let him?”

“He didn’t know,” Rhys replied, pouring his own mug. He added the tea bags, covered it with a saucer, and took the seat across from you. “He thought Cassian was just trimming his own hair. Came back from the bath and Cassian had scissors and that look in his eyes.”

You stirred slowly, keeping your eyes on the swirl of tea. “I’m shocked he survived.” Whether you meant Cassian or Azriel didn’t matter; the sentiment applied to both. 

“Mor told him if he even looked at her hair with a pair of scissors in his hands, she’d skin him.”

You smiled faintly. “Wise.”

Rhys’ lip twitched a little. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed was the kind that didn’t need filling. You let it stretch, let it settle into your bones like warmth. Outside, the thunder seemed to soften, like it, too, was growing tired. 

After some time, Rhys lifted his mug, nose wrinkling slightly as he brought it to his lips. 

“Lavender?” he asked, skepticism coloring the word. 

You glanced up at him over the rim of your own cup. “It’s calming.”

He took a sip anyway, then made a quiet sound like he was trying not to grimace.

 “It tastes like wet flowers.”

You gave him a look. “You’re still drinking it.”

“Out of solidarity.” He gave a theatrical sigh, settling the mug down like it had personally offended him. “Suffering beside you. As always.”

That pulled a soft laugh from you—small, but genuine, slipping out before you could catch it. The first moment of true ease you’d felt since you’d woken up. Rhysand didn’t say anything, just watched you with that quiet attention he wore too well, the corners of his mouth tilting upward like it pleased him to see it. 

You let the silence stretch. “I didn’t know you were staying the night,” you said, still not quite looking at him.

“Didn’t mean to, ” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Had a few things to check in on here. Then the storm hit, and…” He shrugged one shoulder, casual, but not careless. “Didn’t want you riding it out alone.”

The stupid little flip your stomach did was entirely unhelpful. You took a slow sip of tea to ignore it. 

The quiet settled again, a little softer now. Gentler. 

Then Rhys’ voice came, quiet and rough at the edges.

“You always pace around in shirts that short when you’ve got the place to yourself?”

You spluttered mid-sip, barely managing to swallow without choking. Then shot him a withering glare over the rim of your mug.

He was smirking now, the picture of smug innocence. “It’s cute,” he added. “Cozy. Terrifying, really.”

“Keep talking and I’ll convince the House to trap you in the bathroom with no toilet paper.”

“You won’t,” he said confidently, that lazy grin still tugging at his mouth. “You’re too tired. And besides—” he leans in just slightly, your eyes flicking up to meet his despite yourself—“you’d miss me if I left.”

You flinched as a particularly loud boom of thunder cracked. The windows trembled in their panes, wind howling against the glass. The faelights dimmed briefly, a flicker like the storm had drawn a breath too deep. 

“You should lie down,” he said quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re wired.” His eyes flicked to the goosebumps on your arms. “And freezing. Come on.” He rose, tea still in hand. “I’ll stay with you. We’ll wait it out together.”

You hesitated. “... You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” The words were light, but not careless. “At least let me for a bit. You can talk at me until the storm passes.”

And the way he said it—casual, easy, like it cost him nothing to offer his presence—undid you more than it should have. 

You didn’t answer right away. Just took another sip, hoping the warmth would quiet your pulse. 

He let his words sit for a beat before offering, with a spark of levity, “I’ll stay on my side. Promise.”

“You don’t have a side.” 

“I’ll make one.”

You narrowed your eyes as you considered him, gaze trailing from the smug tilt of his mouth to the glint in his eyes. “Fine. But no funny business.”

“Define funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You stood slowly, cradling your mug between your hands, and padded after him down the dim hallway. Neither of you said anything for a few moments, and you liked that—liked the hush between your footfalls, the faint creak of old wood beneath your steps, the way Rhys kept his pace just a half step ahead of yours. 

Then, without looking back, he said, “You’ve got more mugs than sense.”

You glanced at him, deadpan. “They’re seasonal.”

He lifted his, inspecting the faded gold lettering. “‘I survived Calanmai in the Spring Court.’ It’s nearly Starfall.”

You took a long sip. “Year-round commemoration felt appropriate.”

He snorted. “You weren’t even in the Spring Court for Calanmai. We were in the Day Court dealing with that trade dispute, remember?”

“Sure, not this year.”

You turned your mug just as he glanced back, hiding the side that read “I Got Picked at Calanmai and All I Got Was This Mug.”

You shrugged. “You don’t know me.”

He stopped outside your door, wings tucking in as he leaned casually against the frame. You opened it without a word and stepped inside, flipping on the lamp. The room glowed in warm golds and shadows, the storm pressing faintly at the windows.

Rhysand followed a beat later, hands wrapped around his mug, gaze roaming the space like he hadn’t already seen it a hundred times before.

You crossed to the dresser and started absently clearing up—folding the sweater draped over the chair, tucking a pair of socks into a drawer, shoving a bra beneath a pillow like it hadn’t been lying out all day.

“Please,” Rhys said behind you, voice drier than your tea. “As if it’s the first time I’ve seen one of those.”

You tossed him a flat look over your shoulder. “They’re not for your viewing pleasure.”

“Everything’s for my viewing pleasure,” he muttered, already halfway to the bed, mug thunking down on the nightstand like a punctuation mark. 

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the dresser, reaching for a lacy little number you hadn’t realized was still out—only for Rhys to beat you to it, no doubt winnowing the last few feet just for theatrics.

He held it up delicately between two fingers, eyebrows lifting in mock reverence. “Really, (y/n)? This barely qualifies as a scrap. Is it for… special occasions? Or just Tuesdays?”

You snatched it from his hand, cheeks warming. “Stop being a pig.”

His grin was wicked. “Oink.”

You glared at him, but the corner of your mouth twitched. “You’re insufferable.”

Rhys just shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Your hospitality says otherwise.” He moved to climb onto the bed like he’d done a hundred times before. You gave him a long, unimpressed look, then turned to grab your tea. 

By the time you turned back, he was already against the headboard, wings gone, legs stretched out. He looked perfectly at home—too at home.

You slid in beside him with a muttered, “Don’t spill anything.”

“I never do,” he said, tugging the blankets up from where they’d bunched at the foot of the bed, covering you both.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just curled your fingers around your tea and let the warmth soak in. The bed creaked quietly as you shifted against the pillows. His thigh brushed yours.

Thunder grumbled far off, less urgent now. You let yourself breathe.

Then, casually, Rhysand said, “Still humming, by the way.”

You blinked at him.

“When you stirred your tea earlier,” he clarified, turning his head toward you. “Didn’t even notice, did you?”

“I don’t do that.”

“Hum while you stir your drink? You do it all the time,” he said, flopping his arm behind his head. “Drives Amren insane.”

You let out a small, startled laugh. “Now I’m just sad I don’t hum louder.”

“That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his mug in mock toast. “Rattle whatever functions as her soul.”

You clinked your cup against his without thinking. “She’d gut you if she heard you.”

“Please,” he said. “She’s wanted to gut me for centuries.”

You smiled into your tea, warmth pooling in your chest that had nothing to do with the drink. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—just full. Full of steam and thunder and the fact that Rhys was here, warm beside you, his presence taking up more space than it had any right to.

He sank deeper into the pillows, stretching out like he belonged to the space and it belonged to him. His eyes drifted to the ceiling, distant but not vacant. And you let yourself look. The lines of his face were softened in the low light, made golden and shadowed by turns. He looked older like this. Not aged—just… full of time. The kind of tired that sat behind the eyes, ancient and endless and quiet. 

And yet he was warm beside you. Solid. Here. 

“You always do that,” you said after a moment, surprising even yourself.

His gaze slid toward you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear the answer. “Do what?”

“Go quiet. Like you’ve left the room without getting up.”

A faint hum, low and noncommittal as he turned back to the ceiling. “Sometimes I do.”

It wasn’t a deflection. Just a truth handed to you gently. 

You ran your thumb around the rim of your mug. “Where’d you go just now?”

A pause. Not long enough to mean avoidance, just… thought.

“Nowhere.” A pause. “Here.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ceiling, but something in his jaw eased. 

You didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

Then Rhys moved, and your shoulders were almost touching. He huffed a quiet laugh. “Y’know, I used to imagine this.”

You blinked, the sudden shift catching you off guard. “Imagine what?”

He didn’t seem to notice your disorientation, eyes still fixed ahead. “This—sitting here, quiet like this. You. Me. Tea.”

You stared at him for a second. 

“Tea, huh?” you managed, still trying to catch up.

He grinned faintly. “Always figured it’d be chamomile.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Let me guess. In your daydreams, I served you tea in a silken robe and draped myself over your lap like some lovesick devotee.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, finally turning toward you with a glint in his eye. “You were wearing mismatched socks and humming off-key. The usual.”

That startled a laugh out of you, too loud for how late it was. “So you’ve always had terrible taste.”

His brow pulled just slightly, not in confusion but… disappointment? “I like to call it refined,” he said after a breath.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks again, so you did what you did best: sipped and looked away. Beyond the window, wind and water still tangled in the dark—but the violence of it no longer touched you. 

“You know,” Rhys said after a pause, his voice dipping low again, “if we’re pointing fingers, you’ve been the quiet one.”

That violet gaze stayed fixed on you. You’d been on the receiving end of it before—in briefings, in battle, across a crowded room. But never like this. Never steady enough to knock the air right out of your lungs. 

You didn’t answer. 

He shifted again. “Won’t even look at me. What’s that about?”

You didn’t look up. Kept your eyes on the tea gone cold between your hands. There were a dozen reasons you could’ve given. Because the moment felt too full. Because it was easier not to see his face when you answered. Because his voice in your space, his body next to yours, felt like opening a book you weren’t ready to finish. 

Instead, you said nothing. 

Rhys didn’t push, he let the moment stretch.

You tilted your head back, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it might hold a map for what to say next. But what came out wasn’t planned. Just something that had lived on the tip of your tongue for far longer than you were comfortable with. 

“Do you remember that night in the Winter Court?” you asked softly. “When we were in the tent?”

His reply was instant. “We were in the tent a lot of nights, you might have to be a bit more specific.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The night with the storm. When the fire kept going out.”

Realization flickered across his face. “Ah,” he said, voice quieting.

You hadn’t meant to bring it up. Not really. But something about tonight—about the tea and the thunder and the way he looked lounging on your bed like he belonged…

You two had never talked about that night. Never talked about the way his arms wrapped around you like instinct. Never talked about how it felt too natural, too easy, how the silence between you only ever felt like comfort and understanding. But now, with the storm as this strange cocoon around you…

You didn’t know what you’d expected him to say. But now that the words were out there, you couldn’t take them back.

You nodded, fingers tightening slightly around your mug. “I couldn't feel my toes. Thought I might lose them honestly.”

“You were shaking,” Rhys said, a quiet chuckle buried beneath the words.

You looked over at him, the corner of your mouth lifting. “You didn’t seem to mind holding me.”

Rhys tilted his head, his smile softer now. “I didn’t.”

Time slowed, dense with everything you weren’t saying. The storm pressed against the windows. His thigh brushed yours.

Then, quietly—like he was still deciding whether or not to say it—

“I thought about kissing you.”

You looked at him, heartbeat racing.

“You were freezing,” he added quickly, almost like a defense. “I kept thinking if I kissed you, it might stop your teeth from chattering.”

You huffed a breath, setting the mug down on your nightstand. “That is not how body heat works.”

“No,” he agreed, eyes warm. “But it was a nice excuse.”

Your chest tightened. He wasn’t teasing anymore. Not really.

“I didn’t sleep much that night,” you said.

Rhysand looked at you. Really looked at you. “Neither did I.”

You swallowed. The storm murmured against the windows like it remembered too.

“…I had a dream,” you admitted, voice barely above the hush of rain.

His brows lifted, but he didn’t speak. Just waited.

You hesitated. “Not the kind I should’ve had with you so close.”

A beat passed. And then he said, softly, “No?”

You shook your head once.

Rhys’s voice dipped, amused but careful. “Was I at least impressive in it?”

That pulled a short laugh from your chest—breathless, a little flustered. “You were… very convincing.”

His smile turned lazy. “Convincing, or irresistible?”

You huffed. “Don’t push it.”

“Never. I ease,” he said with a smirk like sin, sipping from his mug. “That’s how you get what you want.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse was a steady thrum beneath your skin. You could feel the heat of him beside you, the weight of everything that hadn’t been said over the years pressing in like gravity.

“I kept waking up,” you murmured. “Because I thought… if I moved too much, you’d pull away.”

He was very still. “I wouldn’t have.”

You looked over at him, heart skipping. He was watching you with that unreadable expression—the one that always made you feel like he knew more than he let on.

Then, almost too casually, he added, “For the record… you did move. Quite a bit, actually.”

Your heart stopped. 

No, surely not—

You would’ve remembered that. You definitely would’ve remembered that. Right?

You blinked. “I did not.”

His grin was maddening. “Mmm. Rolled right into me. Twice.”

Heat rushed to your face, ears, down your spine.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, then opened it just to whisper, “You’re lying.”

He looked far too entertained.

“Twice,” he repeated, like he was doing you a favor.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Kill me.”

“I did consider it,” he said with a faint smile, “but you were clinging to me. It felt cruel.”

“Cauldron boil me,” you muttered.

“I thought you were doing it on purpose,” he went on, tone far too innocent. “Torturing me in my sleep.”

Your face remained planted in the palms of your hands, groaning. “I’m never speaking again.”

“That seems dramatic,” he said, clearly delighted.

“I hate you.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m leaving.”

“This is your room,” Rhys said, not missing a beat.

You peeked at him through your fingers. “And you just let me?”

Rhys gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes twinkling. “Well, what was I going to do? Shove you away?”

You sputtered. “Most people would’ve!”

His expression didn’t change, but something about the air shifted—like even the storm outside had quieted to hear what he might say.

“I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to stop you.”

Your breath caught.

You looked at him, expecting the usual grin, some teasing remark—but there was none. Just quiet.

“You never… You never said anything,” you murmured. You weren’t talking about that night anymore—you both knew it. 

Rhys hummed, low in his throat. “Didn’t want to spook you. Or tempt fate.”

This was about all of it. The looks, the silences, the way he’d never pulled away. The way he always felt just out of reach, like he was waiting for you to be sure. Like he’d been sure all along. But so had you—only you hadn’t known he was. You’d stayed just out of reach, too, waiting for a sign that never came.

You gave a breathless sort of laugh. “You think that would’ve tempted fate?”

He arched a brow. “Wouldn’t it have?”

Your silence said enough.

He let it hang there for a beat, then—without looking at you—reached for his mug again. Took a slow sip like he wasn’t aware of the tightrope he was walking. Like this wasn’t everything.

And when he set it down again, he spoke like it was nothing. “Whatever it was you dreamed… you certainly made it hard to stay asleep.”

Your fingers curled in your lap.

He still wasn’t looking at you, but his voice was velvet. “You were restless. Kept shifting. Making these soft little sounds, kept saying—”

You made a strangled noise. “Rhys.”

That made him glance over—his smirk unfairly smug. “Yeah, like that. A bit breathier though.” 

You smacked his arm without thinking—more flustered than actually annoyed.

He chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. “Just saying. Must’ve been quite the night.”

Your pulse thudded hard against your ribs. You should’ve told him to shut up. Should’ve changed the subject.

Instead, you said, quiet and steady, “You can see it, if you want.”

That wiped the grin off his face. He sat up, and his eyes found yours again, sharp and glittering.

“…Can I?”

You hesitated. Because the air between you felt different now, like the quiet after a confession, when the world waits to see what you’ll do with it.

You pushed the blankets off and sat up, mirroring him. Legs folded beneath you. Hands braced in your lap. You weren’t touching, but it felt like you were, every inch between you a live wire. Close. Closer than before. 

You met his gaze and slowly, steadily, exhaled and let go.

Not all the way. Just enough. A slow unspooling at the edge of your mind—like a thread tugged loose.

It wasn’t dramatic. No crashing walls. No shuddering gasp.

Just a tilt. A lean. A flicker of trust in the quiet.

Like cracking a door open—not wide, just enough for someone to slip through if they wanted it badly enough.

And he felt it. You knew the moment he did. Not by any shift in his expression, but by the way his presence responded—quiet and immediate, the brush of his mind ghosting along the threshold of yours. Not a push or a pry, just a gentle touch, like a fingertip at your temple, tracing the edges of your mind’s adamant, as if to say, I’m here. It’s only me. Don’t be afraid.

When he did come in, it was careful. Gentle. Not a push, not a pry—just a brush of thought, like a thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He moved through you with reverence, with restraint. Not like he was looking for something, but like he was waiting for you to offer it.

The pressure in your chest built. Not from fear—but from how intimate it was.

You felt the weight of him in your mind. The shape of him. Familiar and foreign all at once. Rhys, your friend. Rhys, the shoulder you’d leaned on more times than you could count. Now quiet in your head, holding still, holding back—waiting.

So you let him see.

The memory rose, and it bloomed slowly, like a flower opening to sunlight.

Your skin slick with sweat, flushed and bare. Blankets kicked down around your hips. Rhys between your thighs—his mouth everywhere at once. On your throat, your breasts, the inside of your knee. His voice low and rasping, coaxing, worshipping. You arched into him, hands fisted in his hair, dragging him closer, closer.

Soft sounds slipping from your lips. His name. Over and over, like a prayer.

The pace of his thoughts shifted.

You felt it—felt him—react, felt the pulse of heat that wasn’t yours.

But still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He only watched as the memory played out, as you trembled beneath the ghost of his mouth in your dream. As your back arched for him. As your dream-self gasped his name like it meant everything.

You could feel his focus on every detail, like he was memorizing it all.

The way you sounded. The way you looked. The way you wanted him.

Rhys.

You whispered it in your mind—his name soft and aching.

Rhys.

The dark curled tighter inside you, shadows licking through your veins like smoke—hungry and unrelenting.

Taking. Taking. Taking.

Your hips shifted. Your breath hitched.

Rhys.

His breath stuttered in response—wherever he was.

And then, in the quiet of your room, you heard it.

A groan.

Low. Wrecked.

Rhys.

Your eyes snapped open.

Only—you weren’t in your room anymore.

The air was sharp and cold. You could smell pine, damp earth, that faint mineral tang of snow on the wind. Canvas fluttered quietly overhead. The lantern cast that same golden pool of light. You heard the storm beyond the trees, muffled and distant. And beneath you—sleeping bag. Mat. The slight ache in your shoulders from a long day of hiking.

It was perfect.

Too perfect.

You blinked—and felt it all at once: the soft cotton of your shirt clinging to your skin. The same T-shirt you’d fallen asleep in earlier tonight. The same thin underwear beneath it. Your legs were bare. Cold.

And he was there.

Rhys, kneeling over you—close. Real. One of his thighs braced on either side of your hips, careful not to press down. His hands planted on the floor beside your shoulders. Caging you in without meaning to. Pajama pants slung low on his hips. Chest bare. Hair mussed. 

No sign of the coats you had that night. No gloves or boots or scarves to fight off the cold. Just skin.

Warm. Alive. Here.

Your fingers dug tight into the sleeping bag beneath you. “What are you doing, Rhys?”

He tilted his head. “You tell me. It’s your dream.”

The words landed low in your belly.

Because it was—your memory, your dream, your body already humming with the way the figment of him had touched it before. 

He was watching your mouth when you spoke again. “This isn’t how it happened.”

And gods, you could see it—where his hands had already touched this version of the night. Where the boundaries had softened, blurred. The cold clung to your skin still, but this was a watered-down echo of what you’d felt that night. Especially with the heat of him radiating so close, like he was the only warmth left in the world. The wind outside faded. All you could hear was the rhythm of your own pulse.

His gaze flicked up to meet yours. “No. But it could’ve.”

You swallowed. “You didn’t have to quiet the storm.”

He blinked, like the thought had genuinely never occurred to him. “I’ve been doing it all night,” he said simply. “Well, since the kitchen. Bit by bit, so you’d think it was fading on its own”

Your heart stuttered. “Rhys.”

His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “What? You think I couldn’t feel how tense you were?”

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, the words quieter now. “I didn’t… I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Oh?” His brows rose slightly, magic shifting like the tide. “Should I stop then?”

And then, with no more than a flicker of thought, he did.

Sound returned all at once. Wind shrieking against your bedroom windows. Rain pounding the glass in sheets. Distant thunder rolling deep and endless across the city.

Your body locked up. Breath caught in your throat.

And just as fast as it came, it was gone again.

Silence fell. Not the true silence of the storm easing, but the quiet Rhys had crafted for you—thick, warm, and distant, like a memory.

You didn’t say anything right away.

Because part of you wanted to laugh. Not at him—but at yourself. At the sheer madness of lying half-dressed in your own memory, with your best friend hovering over you—inside the dream you’d had about him. Seeing it. Breathing it in. Touching the edges of everything you’d refused to say out loud. 

Your voice came quieter this time. “We’re not just looking anymore,” not really a question, but you needed confirmation. 

A pause.

“No,” he said—low and sure, gaze locked to yours like it was a tether. Like he needed the confirmation too.

You stared at each other. That same heat coiling in your gut, the same ache building where his hands hadn’t touched you yet.

You shifted slightly, barely a brush of your knee against his.

That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow, careful. Like giving you a chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His mouth brushed yours once. Barely. A whisper of contact, soft and almost uncertain.

But your breath caught, and your hands moved on their own—reaching, pulling him closer, until that uncertainty dissolved and his mouth claimed yours fully.

It was deeper this time. Hotter.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just inevitable.

Like he’d always meant to kiss you, and some part of you had always meant to let him.

While one hand held him up, the other found your hip, steady and sure, but not insistent. Just… there. A grounding point. A question.

You answered it without words—just a shift of your weight forward, the press of your chest against his, your fingers sliding up to rest lightly at his jaw.

He groaned low in his throat. Almost inaudible, like he didn’t mean for it to slip out.

Your kiss deepened, slow and molten. His tongue brushed yours, deliberate, and you let him in. Let him have that part of you.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, just his fingers at first. Testing. Savoring. The warmth of your stomach. The shape of your waist.

His touch wasn’t greedy. It was careful. Almost reverent.

“You’ve thought about this,” you murmured, breath catching as he dragged his knuckles along your ribs.

His lips ghosted down your jaw. “So have you.”

You didn’t deny it. How could you, when the lines between dream and memory were already blurring around you? When your body was already arching into his, betraying every want you’d ever buried?

You didn’t have to say it. Not when he could feel it in every breath you took.

He kissed you again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize how you tasted. How you responded. The way your breath hitched when he rolled his hips just barely against yours.

Still clothed. Still not quite there. But the heat between you was unmistakable. Heavy. Radiating.

You whispered his name against his lips, barely audible.

His mouth stilled against your skin. “Say it again.”

You did. Quieter. Closer to a prayer than a plea.

Rhys pulled back just enough to look at you—really look.

There was no smirk this time. No mask of arrogance. Just that same dark, endless gaze, lit now with something deeper. Something older.

“You’re sure?”

Not a tease. Not a dare.

Just a question. One last door he wouldn’t walk through unless you opened it.

You met his gaze and gave him the only answer that mattered—leaning in, mouth brushing his in a kiss that was softer than before. Not desperate. Not urgent.

 Just honest.

Your fingers found the back of his neck, curling there, grounding yourself in him. In this moment.

And Rhys melted into it, bearing his weight on his forearm now, the hand beneath your shirt sliding up again—flat palm, slow drag. Like he was rediscovering a familiar map, one he hadn’t realized he’d memorized until now.

Every breath you took pressed your chest against his. Every motion of your hips fed the fire you were both barely keeping contained.

But it wasn’t just heat burning between you.

It was years. Of glances held too long. Of arguments that meant more than they should’ve. Of moments like this, only imagined.

Rhysand pulled back, far enough to drink you in—eyes roaming, slow and deliberate, like he meant to memorize the sight. The flush on your cheeks. The part in your lips. The want you didn’t bother hiding. “What were you thinking about in the kitchen?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

He arched a brow. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” you said quickly, too quickly. “I just—I couldn’t sleep.”

He hummed, unconvinced. “Funny. Because I was sleeping. And then I wasn’t.”

He shifted above you, and his hand drifted. Down your stomach. Past the pushed-up hem of your shirt. “It wasn’t the storm that woke me,” he murmured, and that hand kept going, slow and steady. “It was your scent.”

You gasped as his palm cupped you over your underwear—broad and warm and possessive. The heel of it pressed just right and he knew it. “Rhys—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t soften. 

“I wanted so badly to know what you were dreaming about,” he said, voice dipped in velvet and ruin, rich with heat. His fingers curled just slightly, a teasing drag along the soaked fabric. “I could smell it. Clear across the house.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear now. “I could smell you,” he said, voice dragging slow, like he wanted the words to settle in your blood. “Warm and ready. Like sugar melting off skin. Like salt and heat.”

His breath skimmed your ear. “I wanted to fall to my knees right then and taste every drop of it.”

He inhaled at the curve of your neck, sharply, greedily, hungrily. Like he could drink in the want from your skin. “It hit me like a fucking punch to the gut.”

Your thighs twitched. He smiled.

“You were so wet, weren’t you?” His thumb moved now, tracing slow, idle circles over the damp cotton. “Dripping onto the sheets, dreaming of something. I couldn’t stop thinking.”

You, on the other hand, simply couldn’t think. You could barely breathe.

“Thoughts of you…” he murmured, dragging the words across your skin. “Spread out across my sheets. Still dreaming. Still wet. I imagined you there on my bed, mouth parted, thighs sticky with it. Maybe you were dreaming of me fucking you slow—dragging it out. Or maybe rough—hands on your hips, face pressed into the pillow.”

His hand stilled. Breath shallow.

“I wanted to touch myself to it,” he said, voice torn. “To that scent—your need hanging in the air like perfume. To the image of you in bed… It drove me fucking mad,” he whispered. “The thought of you, wet and whimpering in your sleep. I almost fisted my cock right there, just to take the edge off.”

A pause, thick with restraint.

“But it felt like… a line I couldn’t cross. Like taking something that wasn’t mine to have yet.”

His head dropped slightly, forehead brushing yours.

“So I just lay there. Thinking. Burning. Telling myself to sleep—Rhysand, ignore it. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t think about her fingers between her thighs, don’t think about her mouth open, whispering your name into the night—

Just sleep.”

A beat. A slow, shaky inhale. 

“But I couldn’t stop thinking. Couldn’t stop needing you. And right when I couldn’t fucking take it anymore—right when I gave in and was reaching for myself—”

“Rhys,” you breathed. 

“It vanished. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. So I got up, went to get some cold water.” He kissed the curve of your jaw. “Tried to walk it off.”

Another slow press of his thumb. Another spike of pleasure.

“And then,” he went on, gaze sharpening like a blade, “I got close to the kitchen. Heard you moving around.”

His smile turned feral. 

“And there it was again.”

You made a soft, involuntary sound—embarrassed and wrecked all at once. 

Rhys purred against your neck, all smoke and satisfaction. “That scent. Cauldron, it’s maddening. Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?”

You shook your head, barely.

He groaned—deep and low and filthy. “Fuck, don’t even have to touch yourself to flood the whole fucking house with it.”

His fingers dragged along the soaked fabric again, deliberate and slow. “All of it between your thighs, and you just… stood there. Thinking about it. Letting it drip down like you didn’t care who smelled it.”

You thought you were alone.

Cassian was in Illyria, Azriel was in Vallahan. 

Rhysand hadn’t said a word before you’d gone to bed. Hadn’t made himself known, hadn’t so much as sent a thought your way. 

He had to know you thought you were the only one home. 

You never would have left your room like that if—

“You wanted me to find you like that?” he whispered. “Is that it? Standing there in your little shirt, soaking yourself, pretending you couldn’t sleep while your body screamed for me?”

Your hips jerked. His hand didn’t budge.

“Rhys,” you tried, broken and breathless.

But he was far from done.

“Maybe,” he mused, voice going molten, “you wanted me to walk in and bend you over the counter. Pull these—” he snapped the waistband of your underwear—“to the side and taste that sweet, sleepy mess you made between your legs. The one that begged me to wake you up with my mouth.”

You let out a ragged breath—half sob, half moan.

“Tell me what you were thinking about in the kitchen,” he said again, lower now, darker. “And this time, don’t lie.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t—”

His fingers slid beneath the cotton. Skin on skin. Heat on heat.

You gasped, hips twitching, breath gone.

“Try again,” he growled, mouth at your throat. “Or I’ll keep my fingers here all night and won’t let you come. Not until you tell me.”

Your legs trembled. “It was you,” you admitted, voice wrecked. “It was always you.”

He groaned like the words were a reward, his fingers finally moving with purpose, circling, stroking.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now tell me what I was doing.”

You bit your lip.

His fingers stilled instantly. 

“You—” your voice cracked, and you dragged in a shuddering breath. “You had me against the window.”

He hummed in approval, fingers pushing in just a little, just enough to make you gasp. “Which one?”

“The big one. Upstairs. In your room.”

“Of course,” he murmured, darkly pleased. “You like the one with the view.”

You nodded helplessly.

“And what was I doing to you?” he prompted, thumb brushing maddening circles again. “Tell me exactly.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed. “You came up behind me. Wrapped your hand around my throat. Pressed me against the glass.”

Before the words even finished leaving your mouth, Rhys shifted—free hand sliding up, fingers curling gently but firmly around your throat, thumb pressing into the soft spot beneath your jaw.

You gasped.

“Like this?” he asked, voice all sin and silk.

You nodded, throat moving against his grip. “Yes.”

His hand between your thighs moved diligently, slick sounds soft and obscene. “Keep going.”

“You pushed my legs apart. Made me look out at the city. Said you wanted everyone to see how pretty I looked for you.”

He groaned—low and wrecked. “Of course I did.”

And then he moved—sliding down your body, pressing kisses to your stomach, your hip, the crease of your thigh. He peeled your underwear off your legs with lazy reverence, and when he looked up at you from between your legs, his eyes glinted like a god about to claim what was his.

“Did I touch you like this in your dream? With my tongue?” he asked softly, like he didn’t already know the answer.

You moaned, thighs twitching. “You didn’t stop.”

He grinned—dark, delighted—and then he didn’t stop, either.

His mouth was on you in a heartbeat—hot, open-mouthed kisses to your swollen cunt, tongue dragging through your folds, firm and slow. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, helpless, right where he wanted you.

And gods, he was good.

He licked into you like he was trying to taste the dream itself, moaning against your cunt like you were the one unraveling him. When his tongue flicked your clit—once, twice, then again—your hips bucked and he groaned, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you still.

“Gods, I knew you’d taste good,” he murmured to himself, voice hoarse. “Did I make you come like this?”

You whimpered. “Twice.”

His mouth sealed around your clit again, tongue flicking faster now, more pressure, more hunger. Your hands scrabbled at the blankets, his hair, anything to hold onto as the pleasure surged, sharp and sudden and far too much—

And then you broke. Legs shaking, breath gone, climax crashing through you with dizzying force. He held you through it, tongue still moving lazily, drawing every last tremor from your body.

You didn’t even have time to recover before he was moving—rising over you again, mouth glistening, eyes wild with want.

His hand cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing along your cheek as he leaned down, kissed you slow and deep. Let you taste yourself on his tongue. Let you feel how much he needed this.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, voice low. “Tell me what I did next.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and already aching again. “You—” your voice faltered. “You didn’t even let me catch my breath. You just… slid inside me.”

A groan rumbled in his chest, and he shoved his pants down with the kind of urgency that made your pulse stutter. reached down, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds with maddening patience.

“Like this?”

He guided the head of his cock through your folds, slick and aching. You nodded, breath catching.

“No teasing,” you whispered. 

His jaw clenched, and then—

He pushed into you with one long, slow thrust, the stretch of him making your eyes flutter shut.

“Fuck,” he breathed, head dropping to your shoulder. “You feel—.”

He started to move, hips rolling deep and steady, slower than the rhythm you’d imagined in sleep. He thrust like he couldn’t get enough.

Gentler. Like he wanted to savor it. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand slid down your side, settling at your waist, grounding you as his body rocked into yours with patient, aching care. Each thrust was deliberate, every motion a silent promise. And when he looked down at you—eyes dark and open, lips parted with quiet reverence—you felt like the only thing that mattered in the world.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

You nodded, breath hitching. “Better than I could’ve ever dreamed.”

That pulled a soft smile from him. He dipped down to kiss you again, slow and lingering, his hips still moving with that unhurried rhythm that had your toes curling. He wasn’t fucking you—he was making love to you. Deep and warm and full of something that felt dangerously close to adoration.

Then his fingers tugged at the hem of your shirt, a silent question. You shifted beneath him, lifting your arms to help, and he peeled it off you with reverent care, tossing it aside without taking his eyes off you.

His lips brushed yours again, breath warm and trembling. “You feel so good,” he murmured, like the words had to be pulled from somewhere deep. His gaze drifted down your body, hungry and awestruck all at once. “And you look…” His breath hitched. “You look so fucking beautiful.”

One hand slid up, fingers splaying over your ribs before cupping your breast—slow, purposeful. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and your back arched instinctively, a soft sound catching in your throat. 

“There you go,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your skin. “That’s it. Just let yourself feel it.”

He groaned, leaning down to press a kiss to your collarbone, then lower. “Been thinking about this,” he rasped, tongue flicking over the peak before he took it into his mouth. “Dreaming of this.”

And his hips never stopped moving.

The pace stayed slow—for a moment longer. Long enough to draw another gasp from your throat, long enough for your fingers to tighten against his back. But you felt it—how his control began to fray. How the roll of his hips deepened, a little harder now, a little faster.

“You still with me?” he breathed, lifting his head just enough to see you nod absently. “That’s my girl… Let me take care of you.”

He drew back and pushed in hard, the force of it knocking the air from your lungs. Then again. And again. Still tender—but no longer soft. Not when he buried himself inside you like he couldn’t stand the thought of being apart.

You clung to him as the pace built, sweat slicking your skin, breath mixing in the charged air between your mouths. He kissed you like he needed it, like he needed you, all of you, while he fucked you deeper, rougher, until every thrust had your eyes rolling back.

You turned your head, breath catching as his mouth dragged along your jaw. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you.

He groaned in response, hips stuttering just slightly.

“Every time you push in,” you went on, voice low and wrecked, “gods, it’s so deep.”

His hand slipped beneath your thigh, hitching it higher, opening you more. “You’re perfect,” he growled. “Fucking perfect.”

Your fingers curled around his nape, tugging him down until your lips brushed his ear. “You don’t have to hold back,” you breathed. “I can take it.”

His hips slowed. 

You didn’t stop. “I want to take it,” you whispered, and then added, a little bolder, “Want to feel all of it. All of you.”

A low, broken sound escaped him. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“I do.” Your gaze met his—open, hungry. “I want you, Rhys.”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink.

Then his grip tightened—hands sliding under your thighs, pressing them up, hooking your legs over his shoulders, folding you open. The new angle had you gasping as he sank in, slow at first, then all at once—deep and overwhelming.

He held you there, panting above you, pupils blown wide.

“This is what you wanted,” he said, and he started to move—hard, fast, relentless, like a dam breaking, like he’d been holding back for years and couldn’t anymore. “So take it. Don’t close your eyes, look at me… There’s my girl. There you go.”

You couldn’t even think, couldn’t breathe as he talked you through it. You could only feel as he fucked you into the blankets with single-minded, devastating purpose.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, nails digging in as he drove into you again and again, every thrust punching a sound from your throat—breathy, desperate, wrecked. You couldn’t even meet his gaze anymore, too overwhelmed by the sheer stretch of him, the heat of him, the way your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let him go.

“Look at me,” he growled, hips snapping forward.

You tried. Gods, you tried. Your lashes fluttered as your eyes met his—wild and dark and hungry.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep those eyes on me while I fuck you.”

You whimpered, head falling back, thighs trembling in his hold. “Rhys—”

“I know,” he panted, pace unrelenting. “I know, baby. I feel it too.”

His hand slid up your side, fingers splayed across your ribs before brushing the swell of your breast. He cupped it gently at first—then squeezed, thumb circling your nipple until you cried out.

“You’re doing so well, fuck—taking me so deep. Can you feel how tight you are around me? Gods, you’re perfect like this,” he said, voice cracking. “Under me. Around me. Fuck—mine.”

You were close—so close it ached, a coil drawn tight in your belly, ready to explode.

“I can’t—” you gasped. “I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he urged, voice nearly breaking. “Come for me. I want to feel it.”

And with one more brutal thrust—deep, punishing, perfect—you shattered around him—body locking up, mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure surged through you like lightning. But he didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

Rhys kept fucking you through it, relentless, determined, dragging every last wave of that climax out of you with deep, punishing thrusts. His grip on your thighs was bruising, the way he held you open, kept you wide and helpless beneath him, like he needed to watch the way you came undone.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “So fucking beautiful when you come.”

Your hands clawed at the blankets, your mind white-hot and unraveling. Every thrust hit something electric inside you, your body too sensitive, too raw, and yet—you wanted it. Needed more.

“Too much,” you whispered, the words barely a breath.

“No, baby,” he growled, dragging his cock out slow—then slamming back in so hard your vision blurred. “You can take it. You’re gonna give me another.”

Your mouth dropped open in a moan, back arching as he angled his hips just right—grinding deep, relentless, right against that spot that made you sob.

“I can’t—” you tried again, voice breaking, but your body told a different story. Your hips rolled to meet him, thighs quaking where he held them, cunt pulsing so hard around him it was all he could do not to lose it.

“Yes you can,” he hissed, sweat slicking his chest. “You’re already close. I can feel you—so tight, so wet. Fuck, you’re milking me.”

You couldn’t think. Could barely breathe. The pressure built again with terrifying speed, your body strung so tight it felt like you might snap in half.

Then his thumb found your clit—circling, pressing, teasing just enough— just enough—

You screamed. Loud and wrecked and his, as a second orgasm slammed into you, fiercer than the first, crashing over you like a storm. Your whole body locked up, legs shaking violently in his grip, and all you could do was feel—like you were flying apart in a thousand pieces, pleasure white-hot and endless. Your vision went white. A cry tore from your throat as your body clenched down around him, pulsing with wave after wave of raw, blinding pleasure. He cursed, his rhythm faltering, then slamming back in with a groan as he chased his own end.

“Gods,” he choked. “You feel—fuck—fuck—”

And then he was coming, hips pressed flush to yours, buried as deep as he could go, filling you with every last pulse of him.

He didn’t stop touching you, even then—his movements gentler now, grounding, soothing, his hands sliding down your legs, your hips, up to cradle your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, both of you panting, trembling, lost.

You were still trembling when he finally eased out of you, slow and careful, like he hated to leave the warmth of your body. You hissed at the sudden emptiness, your legs twitching with the aftershocks.

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “I’ve got you.”

You barely registered him moving—just the rustle of fabric, the shift of air. Then something warm and damp pressed between your thighs, and you jolted.

“Relax,” he said, voice lower now, rasping with the remnants of his own ruin. “Just cleaning you up.”

Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded. “Where the hell did you even get that?”

Rhys gave a soft huff—almost a laugh—as he wrung out the cloth and dabbed between your legs with unhurried care. “I always come prepared.”

You groaned. “That better not be from your pocket.”

He smirked. “Don’t worry. It was clean. Can’t say the same for you.”

You swatted at his shoulder, too weak to land anything meaningful. He caught your wrist easily, brought it to his lips, kissed your knuckles. Then, quieter, more serious: “You okay?”

You met his gaze, and for a second, it felt like the world narrowed to just that—his eyes, searching yours, all that fire banked into something steadier. Warmer.

“I’m good,” you whispered. “Better than good.”

He nodded, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “Didn’t mean to wreck you like that.”

“Liar,” you muttered, which earned another soft grin.

“I mean,” he murmured, voice dipping as he smoothed the cloth over your skin one last time, “I did—but I wasn’t planning on it going that far.”

You let out a breathless laugh, instinctively crossing your arms over your chest as the chill started to creep back in around the edges of your bliss.

“Rhys,” you said dryly, “as much as I’m enjoying the ambiance out here, I’d really prefer not to freeze to death with your come dripping out of me.”

He huffed a soft laugh—but a blink later, the cold vanished. The ground beneath you softened, gave way to your plush mattress. Dim, golden light from your lamp spilled over you both. The scent of lavender and sex filled the space. 

Rhysand shifted closer, his arm curling low around your waist. The weight of his touch, the steadiness, was enough to drown out the storm still raging beyond the window. 

You tucked your head beneath his chin, let his warmth settle into your skin.

“Next time,” you mumbled, eyes already heavy, “you conjure us a fire first.”

His chest shook with a quiet laugh. “Next time,” he promised, voice like velvet and shadows, “I’ll give you anything you want.”