[hockeylover25]

Masterlist

* = smut

ACOTAR

Eris Vanserra:

Ash and Starlight (short series)*:

Prologue | One | Two | Three* | Four* | Five | Six | Seven* | Eight* |

Wild Flames*

Prologue | One |

Deals and Bets*

Sharing is Caring*

Weight of Words | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V |

Cold Hands

Secrets Revealed

Fireplace Confessions*

A Day Off*

Chosen

Breaking Point*

What His Mate Wants*

Satisfied*

Court Secrets*

Stitched Together*

One | Two*

Desperate Mates*

Azriel:

Where Shadows Stay*

| 1* | 2* |

Chatter Box* | Girls Night*

Deal Breaker* | Accidents*

Innocent Party*

Sharing is Caring*

Shadows in Love*

A Favor*

New Ways*

| part one* | part two* |

Being Bought*

Not the One

The Breaking Point*

Sweet Jealously*

The Obsession*

| One | Two | Three | Four |

Home to You*

Cling to me*

Naughty Shadows*

Nyx:

Shadows and Secrets*

| 0 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9* | 10* | 11 | 12 | 13* | | 14 | 15 | 16* |

Just Friends | Part II |

Rhysand:

Innocent Party*

A Helping Hand*

Flustered Bat*

A Favor*

A High Lord’s First*

After the Bond*

His to Claim*

The Lap Incident*

The Arrangement*:

One | Two | Three* | Four

Still Yours*

Lucien Vanserra:

Ways to Help* | Part II | Part III | Part IV |

| Part V |

True Mates*

Cassian:

Hands-On Training*

BatBoys:

What you Need*

Requests:

The Thread* (Azriel x Rhysand Sister)

Rhys x Reader

Burning Recognition (Eris x Summer Court)

Claimed in Silence* (Cassian x Rhysand Sister)

Unavoidable* (Lucien x Acheron!mate)

Books of Truth* (Cassian x Mate!Reader)

The Silent Tether* (Azriel x Rhysand’sSister!Mate)

[hockeylover25]

Naughty Shadows*

Azriel x Female!Reader

Summary: after three months of waking up satisfied in a way you should only feel when you actually take a male to bed, you talk to Azriel to help you figure out who is doing this to you.

Warnings: PLESE READ WITH CATION BECAUSE READER WILL TALK ABOUT BEING TOUCHED WHILE SLEEPING AND WITHOUT KNOWLEDGE (even though she does tell Azriel she likes it and enjoys it), smut, p in v, shadow sex, bounded/blindfolded (shadow play), oral (both)

Authors note: this has been in my drafts for a while but I never really wanted to post it because of the warning that I hope everyone reads before starting it, I don’t anyone trigger so please if there are more warnings needed please lmk. Take care of yourselves and as always hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

I also want to apologize for not posting the best part to the arrangement when I have promised time and time again. I’m gonna be very open when I say I’m exhausted and I’m leaving for college in two weeks so work is very draining. That being said… I will be trying to edit posts when I can but I can’t promise much with my busy year coming up. But, I love you all and will keep posting but maybe only once in a couple of weeks unless I have posts scheduled. 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

Main Masterlist:

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The morning light crawled across the floorboards of your bedroom at the House of Wind, but for once, it didn't bring the usual clarity of a new day. Instead, it brought a heavy, lethargic haze that clung to your limbs like silk.

You blinked against the brightness, your breath hitching as you shifted under the duvet. The sensation was immediate and unmistakable: that specific, deep-seated ache of satisfaction, a residual warmth radiating from your core that you hadn't felt in years. It was the kind of lingering contentment that only followed a night of absolute, explosive intimacy—the kind of pleasure that had been a stranger to your life for far too long.

But you were alone. You were always alone.

For three months, this had been your reality. It started as a vague, confusing sense of well-being that you tried to dismiss as a trick of the mind or a particularly vivid dream. But as the weeks bled into months, the physical evidence became impossible to ignore. You were waking up feeling used in the most exhilarating way, your body humming with a phantom touch that left you breathless even as you sat up in the silence of your room.

A cold shiver raced down your spine, replacing the lingering heat. Fear, sharp and jagged, began to prick at your skin.

You were living in a nightmare that felt like a dream. Someone—or something—was slipping into your room, bypassing the wards, ignoring the Illyrian guards patrolling the halls, and finding you in the dark.

You scanned the room, your eyes darting to the locked door, then to the heavy curtains fluttering in the mountain breeze. You knew the caliber of the people who lived in this house. The Inner Circle was untouchable; their wards were absolute, and their loyalty was beyond reproach. None of them would ever violate your space like this. It was an impossibility, a violation that went against everything you knew of your companions.

So who the hell is getting into my room?

You pulled your knees to your chest, your knuckles white as you gripped the sheets. The satisfaction you felt—the very thing that should have been a gift—now felt like a brand of ownership. Every morning, you were left with the terrifying, maddening question of who was watching you, who was touching you, and why, for the love of the Mother, they were making you enjoy it so much.

The air in your bedroom felt suddenly suffocating, the remnants of that strange, phantom heat now replaced by a frantic need for answers. You didn't bother with a robe, not caring that you were still in your sleepwear. You bolted from your bed, the floor cool against your racing feet, and didn't stop until you were pounding on the heavy oak door down the hall.

You didn't wait for a response. You pushed into Azriel's quarters, your breath hitching in your throat.

He was standing on his balcony, the morning mist clinging to the stone, his back to you. He was shirtless, the morning light catching the jagged scars across his wings and the sharp, powerful lines of his spine. He was murmuring something low—a serrated, melodic tongue—to the dark, swirling smoke of his shadows that danced around his shoulders.

But the moment you stepped into the room, the atmosphere shifted.

The shadows didn't just notice you; they abandoned their master. They surged toward you, dark and cool as mountain water. Before you could even process the movement, they were swarming around your face, pressing soft, ticklish "kisses" against your cheeks and the crown of your head. A startled, breathless giggle escaped you, the sound feeling jarringly light in the tense room.

Azriel turned slowly. His expression, initially sharp with the remnant of whatever private conversation he'd been having, softened the instant he saw you. He rolled his eyes, a flicker of something fond and weary passing over his face as he gestured dismissively at the shadows, which retreated into his skin with a reluctant huff.

He closed the distance between you in a few long, silent strides. He stopped only inches away, his presence massive and grounding. His dark eyes swept over your flushed face, taking in your disheveled appearance and the lingering haze of sleep in your eyes.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, his voice like the grinding of stones beneath a river.

You looked up at him, your mouth parting to let the truth spill out—to ask him if he knew, if he had heard, if he could help you track the phantom who haunted your sheets. But the words died in your throat. How could you explain it? How could you tell him that every morning you woke up feeling like a woman who had been loved, when the man before you was the very picture of restraint?

You shook your head, biting your lip and looking down at the floor, suddenly feeling foolish.

Azriel didn't accept the silence. He reached out, his hand—calloused, cool, and steady—coming to rest under your chin. With a gentle, firm pressure, he tilted your head back until you were forced to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against the column of your throat, a grounding touch that made your pulse jump.

"Tell me," he commanded, his voice dropping into that low, insistent register that brooked no argument. "What is wrong?"

You froze under his touch, the intensity of his gaze making the air in the room feel heavy and thin. The words felt like lead in your stomach, but the need to unburden yourself was becoming unbearable.

"I believe... someone is getting into my room," you whispered, the confession barely audible.

Azriel went deathly still. The shadows that had been restlessly swirling around him vanished in an instant, sucked back into his skin, leaving him looking sharp and dangerous. He leaned closer, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping into a register so dark and possessive that it made a shiver rack your entire body.

"What?"

He saw the reaction—the violent ripple of goosebumps across your skin—and his hand moved instantly. He dragged his palm down your shoulder, his skin radiating a natural, grounding heat that he pressed against you, as if to shield you from the very chill he had just induced.

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering. "I've been feeling... things in the morning," you managed, your voice trembling.

Azriel's brow furrowed, his expression shifting from predatory alertness to deep, focused confusion. "What things?"

You sighed, the heat rising into your cheeks until they burned. Looking anywhere but at him, you forced the words out. "I've been... satisfied in the morning. And I don't understand it. I haven't slept with a male in months, and I don't... I don't touch myself."

Azriel's eyes widened, the dark irises dilating until they were almost entirely black. A flicker of something—recognition? Shock?—passed through them before he nodded slowly, his expression smoothing into a mask of carefully controlled calm.

"Oh," he whispered, a single, soft syllable.

You kept your head bowed, the humiliation of the situation stinging worse than the fear. You didn't see the way he looked at you then, the way his jaw tightened, or the dangerous, protective light that ignited in his eyes.

"Do you want me to stay in your room?" he asked, his voice a low, steady rumble that seemed to vibrate against your skin. "To see if I can find the person that is possibly doing this?"

You nodded, a small, jerky movement. "I'm sorry," you breathed, the apology slipping out before you could stop it.

His eyebrows knit together instantly. "Why are you sorry, love?"

You shrugged, feeling small and fragile in the wake of his intensity. Before you could even formulate an answer, he reached out, his hands moving with a tenderness that contradicted the lethal tension in his frame. He cupped your cheeks, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, forcing you to look up at him.

"Never be sorry," he murmured, his gaze searching yours with an unsettling, singular focus. "Never be sorry when you are feeling violated."

You offered him a small, mute nod, but it felt like a lie. As his hands fell away from your face, the phantom sensation of those "nocturnal visits" stirred deep in your stomach—not with the cold dread of an intrusion, but with a treacherous, simmering heat.

You didn't feel violated. That was the secret that made your chest ache. If you were being honest, the reason you were so desperate to find the person responsible wasn't to drive them away or to summon the guards to have them arrested. You wanted to find them so you could finally give a name to the hunger, so you could tell them exactly how you wanted to be touched, and how much you craved to be fully awake, fully present, for every agonizingly delicious second of it.

The thought of lying there, passive and dreaming while someone—anyone—worshipped you like that, was becoming an obsession. And the thought of that someone being Azriel, standing right in front of you with his shadows coiled in expectation, made your blood roar in your ears.

You couldn't say it. Not yet. The shame of that desire, set against the backdrop of your supposed terror, was too much to bridge.

Without another word, you turned away from him. The silence in the room felt heavy, charged with the static of things left unsaid. You walked toward the door, your steps steady despite the turmoil racing through your mind, and slipped out of his room, leaving the Shadowsinger standing alone in the morning light.

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The dining room at the House of Wind was a symphony of clinking silverware and low, easy banter, but tonight, the atmosphere felt charged with a strange, static electricity. You sat in your usual chair, your pulse drumming a frantic rhythm against your ribs, because right beside you, Azriel had taken the seat he usually avoided.

Normally, he was a silent sentinel across the table, his eyes always tracking you from a distance. Tonight, the proximity of his shoulder—warm, solid, and radiating a low-level heat—made it impossible to focus on your meal.

Cassian's eyebrows pinched together immediately. He opened his mouth, likely to comment on the shift in the seating chart, but a sharp, warning glance from Rhysand silenced him.

Amren, however, had no such reservations. She set her glass of wine down with a deliberate clink, a cruel, knowing smirk playing on her lips. She stared at Azriel, who didn't look up, his attention entirely consumed by the food on his plate.

"Who would've thought," Amren drawled, leaning forward until her long, manicured nails clicked rhythmically against the polished wood of the table. "The spymaster found a new place to haunt at our table."

Azriel rolled his eyes, a muscle in his jaw ticking, but he remained silent.

"Leave him alone, Amren," Rhysand said, though his tone held a hint of amusement.

That was all the permission Cassian needed. "Finally had enough of just watching her, huh, Az? Finally worked up the nerve to make it to second base and actually sit next to her?"

You froze, your fork clattering against your plate. The words hung in the air, blunt and agonizingly close to a truth you weren't ready to face. You risked a glance at Azriel, expecting him to be annoyed or perhaps defensive. Instead, he simply shook his head, looking bored, and continued eating with rhythmic, controlled movements.

You watched him, the pieces of the puzzle suddenly shifting in your mind.

He is a spy. The thought echoed in your head. He was a master of infiltration, a creature of shadows who was never supposed to be caught. And as you replayed his reaction from that morning—the way he had listened to your confession of those "night visits" with such terrifying, composed focus—you realized he hadn't looked shocked at all. He had looked... resigned. Or perhaps, simply waiting.

The suspicion that had been a dull ache in your mind suddenly flared into a blinding, terrifying clarity.

You pushed your chair back, the screech of wood against stone cutting through the conversation like a blade. Everyone turned to look at you, their chatter dying instantly.

"I'm not hungry," you whispered.

Rhysand's gaze sharpened, his violet eyes scanning your face, searching for a crack in your composure. You didn't give him the chance. You clamped your mental shields down tight, forming an impenetrable iron wall around your thoughts so he couldn't see the panic—or the budding, dangerous realization—that was consuming you.

Without waiting for a response, you turned and walked out of the dining room, the weight of Azriel's gaze burning into your back with every step you took toward the sanctuary of your room.

Azriel didn't even wait a minute after you pushed your chair back. He silently excused himself as he followed behind you.

You were walking fast towards your bedroom when you heard his loud steps, steps that you knew he was making loud on purpose to let you know he was coming after you. You paused for one second, before picking up your speed and running down the hall.

The sound of your heart thundering in your ears nearly drowned out the heavy, deliberate thud of boots against stone behind you. You didn't look back—you couldn't. The moment his presence shifted from the dining room to the hallway, the instinct to flee took over, and you broke into a sprint.

"Stop," Azriel's voice echoed, distorted by the shadows he was already calling upon. It wasn't a request; it was a growl, low and vibrating with a possessive authority that made your skin prickle.

You gasped, your momentum faltering as you risked a glance over your shoulder. The hallway was empty. The sconces flickered, casting long, dancing silhouettes against the walls, but there was no sign of him. He had vanished into his element, moving through the darkness like smoke.

You skidded to a halt, spinning around to face the empty corridor, your lungs burning and your eyes darting from shadow to shadow. "Azriel?" you breathed, your voice trembling.

He wasn't there. There was only the oppressive silence of the House of Wind and the feeling of eyes watching you from every corner.

You turned to bolt for your bedroom door, but you didn't even make it a step.

A hand, large and calloused, clamped firmly over your mouth, silencing your sharp intake of breath. Another arm wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against a solid, chest-plated wall of muscle. You let out a muffled shout, your hands flying up to claw at the arm holding you, but the strength behind the hold was absolute.

"I told you," a voice rasped against the shell of your ear, so close that the heat of his breath sent a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. “To stop.”

The shadows swirled around you both, thick and suffocating, locking the rest of the hallway out of existence. You were alone with him. And now, you were far from dreaming.

His hand stayed firmly against your mouth, his presence an immovable wall behind you. "If I let go," he whispered against your ear, his voice a jagged, low vibration, "will you scream?"

You couldn't find your voice to answer. You just shook your head, the movement slight against his palm. He sighed—a sound of profound, weary frustration—and then the world lurched. The sensation of winnowing was a sharp snap of pressure, and in a heartbeat, the hallway vanished, replaced by the dimly lit, familiar sanctuary of Azriel's bedroom.

The moment he released his grip, you scrambled away, your feet hitting the floor as you bolted toward the exit.

"Please," he called out, his voice raw, stopping you dead in your tracks. "Just listen."

You stood at the door, your back to him, chest heaving. You turned slowly, your eyes finding him. He looked undone—his hair mussed, his composure shattered in a way you had never seen.

"It's not me," he whispered, the words heavy and stark. "Who is doing this to you. It isn't me."

You shook your head, your mind reeling. "Then who?"

Azriel let out a long, ragged exhale, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity. "It's my shadows."

You stared at him, the silence stretching until it felt brittle. "What?"

He ran a hand down his face, his skin flushing a dark, painful crimson. "My shadows haven't been sleeping. And when I am... I feel everything they feel. Every stray thought. Every impulse." He took a hesitant step toward you, his eyes pleading. "Touch my wings."

You hesitated, your breath hitching, before you reached out. Your fingertips brushed the sensitive, dark leather of his wings. The moment you made contact, a violent shiver racked Azriel's body. Almost instantly, the shadows spilled from his skin, turning cold and eager, trailing like velvet kisses down the column of your neck.

Azriel hissed, his hands coming up to forcefully sweep them away, his chest heaving.

"So why have they..." you whispered, your voice barely audible as the phantom warmth of them still lingered on your skin.

He leaned his forehead against his hand, eyes closed. "I've been having dreams... about you. Dreams I couldn't wake up from."

The realization hit you, soft and devastating. "Oh."

Azriel nodded, the blush deepening on his cheekbones as he finally met your gaze, his eyes burning with an honesty that terrified and thrilled you. "My shadows have been finding you. They've been doing that to you because... they are nothing but pure, unadulterated lust. And they haven't been able to control it."

The air in the room grew heavy, the remaining tension vibrating with the confession that hung between you. You didn't pull away, instead, you stepped deeper into his space, your presence emboldened by the knowledge of what had been happening under the cover of night. You rose onto your tiptoes, your breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of his neck, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the pulse point jumping there.

Azriel shuddered violently, his hands coming up to grip your waist as if he were trying to anchor himself to the earth.

"What happens in those dreams, Az?" you whispered against his skin, your voice a challenge wrapped in desire.

His eyes snapped shut, his head tilting back as he surrendered to your touch. His voice was a wreckage of restraint when he finally answered, low and jagged. "I... I fuck you."

A hum vibrated in your throat, a sound of dark satisfaction. You dragged your tongue along the curve of his throat, feeling the heat radiating off him. "And how do we do that, huh?" you murmured, your hands sliding up to grip his shoulders, feeling the tension locked in his muscles. "What happens to make your shadows come into my room and fuck me in my sleep?"

Azriel let out a shuddering, broken breath, a sound that quickly devolved into a raw, hungry moan as his own shadows, that are being deliberate and cruel, brushed against the sensitive membranes of his wings. He was losing his battle, and he knew it.

You didn't give him the chance to pull away. You reached down, your hand firm and sure, and gripped him through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. The reaction was instantaneous; Azriel lurched forward, a deep, guttural moan ripping from his throat as he arched his spine into your touch.

"What do you do to me, Az?" you whispered, your smirk feeling dangerous, intoxicating. "Tell me exactly what happens in that room."

His eyes snapped open, his pupils blown wide until the irises were nothing more than thin rings of silver. He looked haunted, his breathing ragged.

"I tie you," he rasped, his voice dropping to a gravelly, possessive pitch that made your knees weak. "I bind your wrists so you can't reach for me, so you can't push me away. And my shadows... they touch you first. They wander everywhere I'm too afraid to put my hands."

He stepped into you, his hardness pressing against your stomach. "They tease you, they edge you until you're sobbing, until you're begging for release—but they never give it to you. They aren't allowed. Only I get to make you come."

He leaned down, his lips ghosting over your ear, his voice a lethal, dark promise. "I blindfold you with them, weave them tight across your eyes until you're entirely mine in the dark. You won't know if it's my fingers or the cold, hard press of my shadows inside you, and I'll make you guess, over and over, until you're screaming my name."

His hands moved to your waist, his grip bruisingly firm as he pulled you flush against him. "And when you can't take it anymore... when you're begging for mercy and my name is the only thing you can think to say... I take you."

He growled, a sound of absolute, primal hunger. "I make you realize that the dreams were nothing compared to the reality of having me inside you, fully awake, fully yours. I'll make you shatter, and I'll hold you while you do it, and I will never, ever let you go."

He didn't wait for your answer. He slammed his mouth onto yours, the kiss tasting of desperation and months of pent-up, shadow-darkened obsession, as he backed you toward the bed.

The world tilted as Azriel pushed you back onto the mattress, the plush fabric sinking beneath your weight. Before you could even blink, his shadows surged upward like living ink, coiling around your wrists and hauling them high above your head, pinning you against the headboard.

Azriel loomed over you, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory intent. He stripped his shirt off in a single, fluid motion, the muscles of his chest and abdomen rippling with every movement. When he kicked away his pants and underwear, the sight of him—hard, thick, and undeniably ready for you—stole the breath from your lungs. A helpless, needy whine escaped your lips, your hips bucking instinctively toward him.

A slow, triumphant smirk spread across his face, his gaze tracing your flushed skin. "The exact reaction I dreamed about," he rasped, his voice rougher than any growl you'd ever heard him give.

He didn't make you wait. He leaned down, his movements deliberate and unhurried as he stripped your pants and underwear away, exposing you completely to the cool air of his room—and to his insatiable, dark stare. He braced himself between your knees, his skin radiating a feverish heat that made your body ache to bridge the final gap between you.

"You're going to be so good for me and my shadows," he whispered, his voice a low vibration against your stomach as he slid his head between your thighs, tasting the slick heat he had been craving for months.

You gasped, your hips arching off the mattress as Azriel's tongue teased you with agonizing precision. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your own body. "You taste so much better than I imagined," he rasped, his voice thick with a hunger that had been festering for months.

When he finally pulled away to capture your mouth in a searing, bruising kiss, you whimpered, reaching for the friction you were suddenly denied. But the contact didn't stop. Instead, you felt the cool, velvety prickle of his shadows swirling between your thighs, mimicking the movement of his tongue with a terrifying, intimate accuracy.

Azriel chuckled against your lips, a low, dark sound. "They know every part of you, baby," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and pure, unadulterated possessiveness. "That's what they've been doing for three months. Tracing every inch, memorizing every reaction, so when this moment finally came... I would know exactly how to break you."

Your legs trembled uncontrollably, the friction of the shadows building a pressure in your core that felt like it would snap you in two. You were on the razor's edge, your breath hitching in jagged, desperate gulps. But just as you peaked—just as the world began to white out—the shadows vanished, withdrawing instantly.

The sudden absence left you reeling, your head falling back against the pillows with a frustrated, needy cry.

Azriel moved up to cover you, his warmth pressing you back into the mattress. He caught your gaze, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. He kissed your neck, his lips lingering on your pulse, and as he traced a slow, deliberate line with his finger down the center of your body, he slid it inside you. The sudden, invasive heat of him sent a fresh shockwave through your senses, leaving you wide open and shivering beneath him, waiting for the rest.

Azriel watched your reaction, his eyes darkening with a possessive pride as your legs continued to tremble against the sheets. He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to vibrate through the mattress, and slipped a second finger inside you, stretching you, claiming you.

At the same time, two of his shadows curled upward, deftly lifting your shirt and discarded fabric away until you were completely exposed. They darted toward your breasts, swirling around your hardened nipples with a cold, electrifying touch that had you gasping.

You threw your head back, your body bowing against the bed as a frantic, ragged plea tore from your throat. "Let me come, Az... please."

Azriel's smile didn't reach his eyes—they were entirely consumed by the sight of your surrender. He leaned down, his voice a firm, lethal whisper against your ear. "Not yet, baby."

You whined, a high, desperate sound, but just as the climax began to ripple through your nerves, he cruelly pulled his fingers away, leaving you hollow and aching. Before you could even process the loss, he withdrew from between your thighs, shifting his weight.

You blinked, dazed and confused, your breath coming in sharp hitches. You reached for him, your instinct to pull him back, as you tilted your head back and parted your lips, ready for the heat of him.

But as you opened your mouth to take him, the sensation struck like a bolt of lightning.

A shadow, thick and firm and cold as ice, pushed into your core with a sudden, driving force. You gasped, your eyes widening as you felt the impossible, phantom shape filling you completely. At the same moment, Azriel lunged forward, thrusting his cock into your mouth.

You let out a loud, broken moan that was stifled by the fullness of him. You were being taken from both ends—Azriel's rhythm in your mouth, and the relentless, chilling friction of his shadows deep inside you. You were trapped, overwhelmed, and entirely, blissfully, his.

You moaned around him, the friction in your throat and the persistent, phantom fullness of the shadows driving you to the brink of insanity. Azriel didn't hold back, his voice dropping into a guttural, wicked rasp as he leaned over you.

"That's it, take it all," he growled, his eyes locked onto yours, blazing with a dark, consuming hunger. "You're ours, aren't you? Even when you're awake, you're just a vessel for my needs. You love how it feels to have my shadows inside you, to be filled by the very thing that's been haunting your dreams. Say it. Tell me you belong to us."

You sobbed a broken agreement against his cock, your senses completely overwhelmed. But just as the world began to fracture, just as the pleasure threatened to swallow you whole, he acted. He jerked his shadows away, leaving you hollow, and pulled his cock from your mouth, leaving you gasping in the sudden, agonizing emptiness.

He waved his hand, and the room went still as the shadows dissipated, retreating into his skin. He stood over you for a heartbeat, his chest heaving, before he moved between your thighs.

You didn't wait. You reached out, your fingers digging into the hard muscles of his shoulders, desperate to pull him down, to end the torture. He smiled—a soft, wrecked expression—and lowered himself, slowly guiding his length into your core.

As he pushed inside, the fit was absolute. You groaned, your hips rising to meet him, and kissed him deeply, the taste of him clinging to your lips.

He didn't thrust with the raw, frantic aggression of before. Instead, he moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his dominance shifting into something profound and grounding. "My love," he whispered, his voice shedding its jagged edge, becoming smooth and worshipful. "You are so beautiful. I have wanted this—wanted you—for so long. Everything I am, everything I have, it's yours. It's always been yours, my mate."

The word hung in the air, echoing like a tolling bell. Your eyes flew wide, your heart stuttering as a sudden, golden warmth flooded your chest. The mental walls between you dissolved, replaced by a radiant, undeniable tether. You could feel him—his love, his obsession, the depth of his soul reaching out to claim yours.

You froze, the realization slamming into you as you felt the bond snap into place, vibrating through your very soul. Azriel's eyes widened, his face softening with a look of pure, terrified wonder. He leaned down, brushing his forehead against yours, his lips ghosting over yours as you whispered, "My mate."

He just nodded, a single, sharp motion of acceptance, and the dam finally broke. He surged forward, his pace picking up, and you met him with every ounce of your strength. You moved together, a singular entity, the intensity building until the world exploded in white light. You shattered, calling his name, and as he followed you over the edge, he held you as if you were the only solid thing in a universe that had just begun.

The silence in the room was no longer heavy with secrets, but draped in the comfortable, heavy aftermath of your union. As you lay tangled in the sheets, Azriel let out a soft, low chuckle that vibrated against your chest. You joined him, the sound breathless and light, a stark contrast to the desperation that had filled the room only moments ago.

You reached up, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw as you pulled him back down for a lingering, tender kiss. When you finally pulled away, you whispered, "Who knew it would be your shadows who finally got us together?"

Azriel nodded, his expression softening as he looked down at you. "Especially doing it the way they did," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. A sudden, dark growl rumbled in his chest, his brow knitting with a flash of uncharacteristic frustration. "I still can't believe they did that to you, that they took such liberties..."

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, a blush deepening as you recalled the phantom touches and the nights of waking up humming with his influence. "It's fine," you whispered, averting your eyes.

Azriel didn't let you look away. He gently caught your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He saw the flicker of lingering heat, the unmistakable trace of lust that hadn't quite faded from your eyes. He smirked, a wicked, knowing light entering his expression.

"You liked it, didn't you?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous velvet.

You couldn't lie, not with the bond between you humming so brightly. You gave a slow, shy nod.

Azriel leaned in, pressing his nose against yours, his breath warm and tickling. "My little mate," he murmured against your lips, his voice laced with a possessive, teasing edge, "is such a whore."

You gasped, half-shocked, and playfully slapped his shoulder. He laughed—a deep, resonant sound—and before you could protest or reach for another pillow to throw at him, he gathered you into his arms. With a graceful, effortless movement, he lifted you both from the bed and carried you toward the bathroom to get you cleaned up, never once letting his gaze stray from yours.

[hockeylover25]

What You Need*

BatBoys x Female!Reader

Summary: when you finally get out of your marriage with Eris, you head to Velaris and finally go out to a bar. What you didn’t realize is who you would meet and how they would give you exactly what you need.

Warnings: smut, p in v, double penetration, oral (both), softdom!azriel, meandom!Cassian&Rhysand, handcuffing, dirty talk, (I literally wrote over 5000 words of smut…)

Authors note: omg I have never wrote this much smut before so I hope yall are fed lol, ummm… I promise I am almost done with the next part of the arrangement I am just busy with my class which is finally done this weekend!!!! So soon i promise 🤞. But as always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻.

Main Masterlist:

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 　　 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The ambient hum of the tavern fades into a low, static quiet as you lock eyes with the shadows pooling in the far corner of the booth.

For years, you believed marriage would fix the cracks in your friendship with Eris—that an old bond could weather an arranged crown. When his father demanded the match, Eris simply bowed his head and followed his father's words.

Now, here you are, not in your court, but hiding in a bar, separated from your once-best-friend-turned-ex-husband.

You look down at the heavy gold ring in your hand with a small, bitter frown. By now, Eris will have found the note you left in your chambers, the one telling him you couldn't do this anymore and begging him not to look for you. In your desperation, you fled to the one place you believed Eris would never set foot.

Velaris.

You always knew of his secret meetings with the Night Court, of the whispered plans to unseat and destroy his father, though you never questioned him. But as you turn in your chair and see the shadowsinger staring straight back at you with unreadable, curious eyes, you realize you are in deep shit.

Azriel's eyes haven't left your body since you came into the bar. He knows you from somewhere, but he just can't remember where, until Cassian nudges him for attention and softly mutters, "Brother, what have you been loo— Oh... now I understand."

Azriel turns his head to shoot a lethal glare at Cassian, who is now staring you down—though you finally turn your head away once you feel the weight of four pairs of eyes on you.

Cassian smirks, whispering, "Who is that?"

Azriel shrugs, but Rhysand scoffs from across his two brothers, saying, "That is our dear friend Eris's lovely wife."

Cassian smiles as Azriel furrows his brow, asking, "Why is his wife in our bar without him?"

Rhysand shrugs, playing with his suit jacket, and says, "Well, it seems she is playing with her wedding ring, so I would assume she finally left the bastard."

Cassian starts to stand, saying, "I'll go introduce myself."

Azriel tugs him back down, snapping, "What is wrong with you?"

Cassian smirks with a shrug. "The dear female is sad... now it is up to us to make her happy. Am I right?"

Rhysand smirks and nods, while Azriel rolls his eyes, muttering, "Get her back to my chambers."

Cassian wags his eyebrows, saying, "Are you finally going to let us chain one of them up? We've done this for years and you've never let us use your kinky shit."

Rhysand lets out a laugh as Azriel rolls his eyes. "I'll chain you up, Cassian."

Cassian stands again, and as he stands, he whispers, "That's fucking kinky, Az, and I love it."

Azriel scoffs into his drink, a dry, humorless sound, as Cassian shoots him a wicked wink and pushes away from the booth.

You don't hear him approach over the low, thrumming bass of the tavern, but suddenly the air shifts—the ambient warmth replaced by a sharp, crisp edge like mountain pine and impending frost. A warm breath ghosting over the sensitive skin of your neck makes a violent shiver spike down your spine.

"Is this seat taken?" a low, rich voice murmurs right against your ear.

You jolt, turning your head far too fast. You nearly brush noses with the General of the Night Court himself, his dark, impossibly striking features looming inches from yours. Your breath catches, and you can only manage a hesitant, breathless shake of your head.

"M—"

Before you can finish, Cassian's gaze drops deliberately, sliding slowly down the line of your body before he casually slips onto the bench beside you. His large frame instantly makes the booth feel impossibly small, trapping you against the wood.

"Are you from around here?" Cassian asks, his voice a low, gravelly purr meant only for you. "Me and my brothers come here often, and we have never seen you."

You look down, a hot flush burning across your cheeks, and whisper, "No. I'm from Autumn. I just moved here a couple of days ago."

Cassian nods slowly. The bartender slides a cold bottle of beer across the scarred wood toward him, but Cassian doesn't even glance at it. His dark eyes remain fixed entirely on you. "Autumn? I've heard much about it. Why did you leave?"

Your body instantly locks up. You force your shoulders into a casual shrug, your voice barely audible over the din. "Just wanted a new scenery."

A dangerous, knowing smirk touches the corners of Cassian's mouth. Without warning, his hand slides beneath the table, his warm fingers wrapping firmly around your hip to tug you closer until you are slotted directly between his thighs, completely enclosed by his heat.

"Scenery?" he murmurs, leaning in until his breath fans over your jaw. "I know some much better places if you want to get out of here."

You lean back slightly, putting a fraction of distance between you, though your pulse is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. "What about your friends?"

Cassian smirks right against the sensitive skin of your neck. "They will meet us there."

You swallow hard and give a slow, hesitant nod. Cassian stands up in one fluid, powerful motion, extending a large, calloused hand down to you. But right before your fingertips touch his palm, hesitation grips you.

"I never caught your name," you whisper, looking up through your lashes.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. "I'm Cassian. You'll remember it easy, though."

A breathless, nervous giggle slips past your lips. "Why is that?"

Cassian's eyes darken as he steps in close, his hands dropping to grip your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him. "Because you'll be too busy screaming my name and nothing else."

A helpless whimper escapes your throat, vibrating in the quiet space between you—and then the world snaps sideways, and Cassian winnows the two of you straight into the heavy, shadowed quiet of a private room.

You gasp as a pair of large, calloused hands wrap firmly around your waist from behind—hands that are wider, heavier, and entirely different from Cassian's grip. A soft, involuntary moan slips past your lips as warm lips brush against the delicate curve of your neck, a low, rumbling groan vibrating directly against your skin from the stranger pressed flush against your back.

"Cassian... where am I?" you whisper, your voice trembling as your fingers curl into the fabric of your clothes.

Across the dimly lit, private room, Cassian chuckles, a rich, knowing sound. With a flick of a wrist and a surge of raw magic, a dozen silver-wicked candles flare to life along the stone walls, casting long, dancing shadows across the space.

Blinking against the sudden light, you turn your head and lock eyes with the male who had been watching you with silent, predatory intensity all night from the tavern corner—Azriel.

And right behind you, anchoring you completely against his hard chest, Azriel continues to press slow, worshipful kisses down the sensitive line of your throat. He pauses, his breath hot against your pulse point, before his voice murmurs a dark, velvet command directly into your ear:

"Tell us the real reason you left Autumn, darling... tell us how Eris couldn't treat you well."

You reach your hand backward, your fingers tangling instinctively into the dark, silky strands of Rhysand's hair. He groans deep in his chest against your skin, the sound vibrating straight through you.

Across the room, Cassian rolls his eyes, a teasing smirk pulling at his mouth as he leans against a dark oak table. "Keep it in your trousers, Rhys—don't come in your pants already."

Rhysand chuckles, a low, rich vibration, before his lips press harder against your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point in a delicious, punishing tease. "Come on... tell us, darling."

Trembling, you tilt your head back against his solid chest, your thoughts racing as the pieces finally click together. You nod slightly into the dark air. "I knew... I knew I'd seen you three somewhere."

Cassian steps in close, pressing a warm, lingering kiss directly to your cheek. His voice is a rich, grounding promise as he murmurs, "And now we're going to show you how a real male should treat his wife."

Your eyes widen in shock and panic, the gold ring burning in your pocket like a brand. "I—I'm not his wife anymore."

A low, smooth chuckle ripples from the side of the room. You jerk your head around with wide eyes as Azriel steps out of the shadows, closing the distance between you with silent, fluid grace. He stops just inches away, his bruised-looking eyes fixing on yours as he whispers, "We know, sweetheart. We don't fuck married or mated females."

Before your racing heart can settle, Azriel is right in front of you. His large, leather-gloved hands replace Rhysand's, taking firm, possessive hold of your waist to anchor you against his heat. He tilts his chin down, his gaze piercing and heavy as he asks, "Do you want this?"

You freeze, caught completely in the pull of his dark, beautiful gaze, before you give a small, helpless nod.

Rhysand coos softly from right behind you, his breath warm against your ear. "Use your words, darling."

You swallow hard, your voice barely a breath in the quiet room as you whisper, "Please."

Azriel's thumb gently brushes the tip of your nose, a ghost of a touch before his lips press softly against the bridge of it. "Good girl," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly caress. "Now, go strip down and lay on the bed."

Your eyes widen at the sudden command, your breath catching in your throat. Before you can process it, Rhysand's hand comes down in a firm, playful slap against your backside that has a gasp tumbling past your lips. Azriel steps back, dropping his hands from your waist, and as your gaze follows him across the room, your eyes go wide.

Dominating the center of the spacious, candlelit chamber is a massive, mahogany four-poster bed—with thick, heavy iron-and-leather handcuffs secured to all four corner posts.

You slowly turn your back to the bed, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as you look back at the three males watching you with rapt, hungry attention. Trembling, your fingers move to the buttons of your shirt. You pop them open one by one until the fabric parts, and as you let it slip off your shoulders, a low groan tears from Cassian's throat, his hand coming up to cover the front of his trousers as he watches you bare.

A sudden flash of daring flickers through your panic. You offer a small, wicked smirk as you let the shirt drop entirely to the floor. Your hands move down to your pants, unbuttoning the waistband and sliding the fabric down your hips until you step out of them completely.

You turn back toward the bed, taking a hesitant step forward, but Azriel issues a sharp, warning tisk. You look up, your pulse roaring in your ears, as he takes a slow step toward you.

"All of it, sweetheart," Azriel whispers, his dark eyes burning into yours. "I want to see all of you."

A violent blush floods your cheeks, hot and heavy, but you nod. With shaking fingers, you reach behind your back, unclipping your bra and letting it fall to the floor to join the rest of your clothes. All three males smirk, their eyes darkening with predatory appreciation as your hands slide beneath the delicate lace waistband of your remaining underwear, slowly pushing it down your thighs until you step out of that as well, completely bare under their heavy, consuming gazes.

Cassian steps forward, his boots silent against the stone floor, until his large hand settles warm and heavy on your waist. You gasp, your breath hitching, as a confident smirk touches his lips and he gently, irresistibly pushes you backward toward the edge of the mattress.

Instead of laying flat against the pillows, you sink back into a solid, heat-radiating chest—Rhysand catching you, pulling you back so that you are nestled right between his spread thighs, your back flush against his torso.

You let out a soft, shuddering moan as Rhysand's lips immediately find the sensitive skin of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. "So fucking gorgeous, darling," he growls against your skin, his voice thick with possessive awe. "How could Eris ever let you leave?"

You shudder violently, your fingers curling into the sheets as you whisper, "He... he doesn't know."

Azriel remains standing at the foot of the bed, his gaze dark and unblinking as he watches his brothers claim your skin. A sharp frown creases his brow. "What do you mean?"

A loud, breathy moan tears from your throat as Cassian drops to his knees, his mouth immediately latching onto your left nipple, sucking hard enough to make your vision blur. "I left him," you choke out between ragged gasps, your hips bucking slightly. "I... I believe he still doesn't know yet. But I left a note."

Azriel's expression hardens into a dark, lethal smirk. He nods slowly, reaching out to grab a heavy mahogany chair from the nearby desk. With a smooth, deliberate motion, he drags it over and sits down right at the end of the bed, his arms resting on his knees as he watches Cassian and Rhysand reduce you to a trembling mess.

You moan again, your wide, glazed eyes immediately locking onto Azriel, refusing to look away even as Cassian's kisses trail lower down your stomach. Cassian shifts, crawling fully between your spread thighs and pressing open, worshipful kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

When Cassian realizes your gaze is fixed entirely on Azriel instead of him, a low growl vibrates in his chest. He gives your thigh a sharp, stinging slap that makes you jump. "Eyes on me, sweetie," he demands, his voice tight with warning.

Before you can shift your gaze, Azriel gives a slow, deliberate shake of his head, a dark edge to his voice as he mumbles, "Keep them on me, sweetheart."

Cassian shutters, a mix of frustration and arousal, before burying his face between your thighs and pressing his tongue directly against your sensitive core. Your head immediately lolls back with a piercing cry, collapsing against Rhysand's shoulder.

Rhysand chuckles darkly, his hand reaching up to gently cup your chin, lifting your head so you have no choice but to meet Azriel's burning gaze. He whispers right into your ear, his breath hot and ragged, "Keep your eyes on Az, darling... he loves to watch."

You shudder, nodding frantically as a deafening, messy moan breaks from your lips. At the sound, Azriel's jaw tightens; slowly, deliberately, his hand moves down to unbutton and unzip his trousers, sliding underneath the fabric to wrap a heavy, bruising grip around his thick, weeping length.

You whimper softly, your lips parting automatically in a silent plea. Rhysand's smirk presses against your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You want a cock in there, darling?" he purrs, his voice thick with dark amusement.

You nod frantically, your chest heaving.

At your movement, Cassian slips a wet, slick finger deep inside of you, drawing a high, shattered cry from your lips. At the same time, Azriel stands up from the chair, walking around to the side of the bed. As you turn your head blindly toward him, you moan, your nose bumping directly against the heavy, straining bulge behind the fabric of his trousers.

Azriel's hand shoots out, his fingers tangling roughly into your hair to yank your head back so your throat is fully exposed to him. He smirks down at you, his eyes dark as midnight. "You won't be able to handle my cock, sweetheart."

You whimper a breathless denial, but Azriel just gives a slow, dismissive shake of his head. He pats your flushed cheek with his free hand, then looks over his shoulder at the High Lord behind you, nodding curtly. "Give her your cock, Rhys. Make her shut up."

Rhysand chuckles, a deep, satisfied sound vibrating through his chest. In a blur of movement, he shifts, sliding out of his remaining clothes until he is completely bare. He positions himself right in front of you, his thick, heavy length brushing against your cheek before he pushes forward, sliding effortlessly into your open, trembling mouth.

You hum around the thick length filling your mouth, a warm, desperate sound that makes Rhysand's breath hitch. He smirks, his hand coming up to tangle tightly in your hair, holding you in place as he strokes slowly in and out.

"What a fucking whore, darling," Rhysand praises, his voice a gravelly, worshipful rasp against your ear. "Just a whore for us."

You nod eagerly around his cock, your throat accommodating him as best as it can, the tip pressing deep. But as your eyes drift away, they instantly lock onto Azriel standing beside the bed.

He has just shoved his trousers and underwear down past his hips. Your eyes widen, your breath catching in your throat at the sheer size of him—thick, heavy, and already weeping precum. He wraps a large, calloused hand around himself, his knuckles white as he begins to drag his fist up and down in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his dark, unblinking gaze fixed entirely on you as you choke and feast on his brother.

You moan aloud around Rhysand's length as Cassian abruptly shifts his hand, sliding two more fingers deep inside your wet, aching heat. Cassian chuckles darkly as your inner walls clench and spasm tightly around his knuckles, the sudden stretch nearly making your toes curl.

He lifts his head from your stomach, his chest heaving as his dark eyes take in the intoxicating scene: you, kneeling between his legs, choking around Rhysand's thick cock while your glazed, desperate eyes remain locked entirely on Azriel across the room stroking himself.

Cassian presses a soft, lingering kiss to your fevered stomach. Unable to take the overwhelming friction and the agonizing build-up anymore, you pull your lips off Rhysand's length with a wet pop, panting frantically.

"Please... please let me come," you sob out, tears pricking your eyes as you beg. "I need it, please."

Rhysand and Cassian instantly trade a dark, knowing look before turning their gazes to Azriel.

Azriel's hand pauses on his heavy length, his voice a low, rough rumble. "You need it, sweetheart?"

You nod frantically, letting out a shattered moan as Cassian flicks his tongue directly over your swollen, oversensitive clit.

Azriel gives a single, sharp nod. "Come, sweetheart."

The permission breaks you. You collapse backward onto the mattress, your hips bucking up against Cassian's hand as a blinding, white-hot orgasm rips through you. You scream into the quiet room, your walls milking his fingers in wave after intense, shattering contraction.

Cassian strokes his fingers deep inside you as you ride out the peak, while Rhysand leans down, brushing a damp lock of hair from your forehead.

"That's it, let go for us, darling," Rhysand coos softly, his voice thick with praise. "Such a good girl, taking it so well."

"So fucking good," Cassian murmurs, pressing gentle, worshipful kisses to your inner thigh as your body still twitches from the aftershocks. "Look at you, shaking apart."

When Cassian finally slips his fingers out and steps back from the edge of the bed, his hand comes down in a sharp, stinging slap right across your sensitive pussy, making you gasp and whimper at the sting.

Before you can even catch your breath, Azriel moves with silent, lethal grace. He climbs onto the bed, shifting behind you so that you are pulled back to nestle flush against his hard, heat-radiating chest, right between his spread thighs.

You let out a soft, contented hum as Azriel's large, calloused hand reaches around, gently gripping your chin to turn your face toward his. He lowers his head, capturing your lips in a slow, surprisingly tender kiss.

You kiss him back eagerly, parting your lips and pressing harder against him, craving more of his friction. But Azriel gently pulls back, breaking the kiss with a soft brush of his lips against yours.

"Soft, baby," he whispers against your mouth, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "No need to rush."

You nod, a breathless shiver running through you. Azriel leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to the tip of your nose, then sliding it across to press one to your cheek, before finally claiming your lips once more. A soft moan slips into the kiss as, without warning, the heavy, blunt head of a hard cock begins to slowly, deliciously slip inside of you.

Azriel smiles against your lips as you lean back and moan, his hand remaining firmly tangled in your hair to keep you anchored flush against his chest.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing rasp against your mouth.

Azriel glances down past your shoulder, his dark eyes sharpening as he watches Rhysand—who is now positioned between your legs—slowly slide his thick, heavy length inside of you. A sharp, rough groan tears from Azriel's throat as he watches Rhysand's cock push in and out of your wet, aching pussy.

You tilt your head back against Azriel's solid shoulder, breathless and overwhelmed. Azriel presses his lips to your ear, his voice dropping to a dirty, possessive purr. "No, look, sweetheart. Look how good your pussy takes this cock. It loves all the attention, doesn't it? Just soaking it all in."

You nod frantically, a pathetic whine tearing from your throat as you sob out Azriel's name. Hearing his name on your lips, Azriel turns your face back toward his, catching your bottom lip in a gentle pout before sealing his mouth over yours. The unexpected softness makes a small, breathless smile curve across your lips, and you part them willingly, eagerly deepening the kiss as Rhysand's relentless rhythm pounds into you from behind.

You turn your head away with a sharp moan, and Azriel's gaze shifts upward. Standing right beside the two of you is Cassian, his heavy, throbbing cock gripped tightly in his hand as he watches you with dark, hungry eyes.

Azriel smirks, his fingers firm on your jaw as he guides your head further around until your lips brush against the tip of Cassian's length. "Take his cock, sweetheart," Azriel commands softly, his voice thick with praise. "Be our good girl."

You part your lips obediently, taking Cassian straight into your mouth as a low, appreciative hum rumbles in his chest. Azriel's free hand traces a soothing, possessive path down your back and over your waist, anchoring you completely.

Looking down past your body at Rhysand, who is still buried deep inside you, Azriel issues a dark, velvet order. "Make her come, Rhys. Get her ready for my cock."

Rhysand gives a sharp nod. Without breaking his deep, punishing rhythm, his thumb shifts to press and circle heavily against your oversensitive clit. Your legs begin to violently shake around Rhysand's hips.

Azriel leans down, pressing his lips against the sensitive skin of your neck as he urges you over the edge. "Come, baby. Come for Rhys."

The dual friction shatters your control. Your thighs tremble uncontrollably as you buckle and spasm, coming violently around Rhysand's cock. A fraction of a second later, Rhysand groans out a deep, guttural curse, his hips stuttering as he spills himself deep inside you. At the exact same moment, Cassian lets out a loud, ragged roar, filling your mouth with his thick, hot seed as you swallow helplessly around him.

You gasp as you lean back against Azriel's chest, the lingering warmth of his body fading slightly as he presses a soft kiss to your damp cheek.

"Do you trust us?" he whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

You nod frantically, but a low, desperate whine catches in your throat as Azriel begins to shift away, breaking contact. He offers a slow, reassuring smile, leaning down to press one final kiss to your lips. "I have to move for this, sweetheart."

You nod, breathless and pliant. Once Azriel steps back, leaving you laying bare and shivering on the wide mattress, Cassian is there. He scoops you up effortlessly, pressing a deep, slow kiss to your mouth that drags a soft moan from your chest. You instantly wrap your arms and legs around his large frame, clinging to him.

With a low chuckle, Cassian shifts, laying back down on the bed with you straddling him. He positions the two of you so that your heads are angled directly toward the mahogany chair where Azriel has returned, sitting down with his dark, unblinking gaze locked entirely on you.

Cassian is beneath you, his hands gripping your hips, and you let out a high, fractured moan as his thick, heavy cock slips smoothly deep inside your already sensitive heat.

Your breath catches and your jaw drops open in a silent, paralyzed whimper as you stare across the room at Azriel, who resumes the slow, hypnotic stroke of his own massive length. But before you can even process the weight of Cassian inside you, a new, agonizing stretch claims you—Rhysand's thick, unyielding cock slowly, deliberately sliding into your pussy right alongside Cassian's, filling you to the absolute breaking point.

You let out a shattered, breathy moan as Azriel's approving nod and voice wash over you. "There you go."

Your eyes flutter shut, and Cassian immediately seizes the rhythm, driving upward into you with a heavy, steady roll of his hips. You moan louder, letting your heavy head drop forward to rest against Cassian's shoulder, completely surrendered to the dual invasion.

Suddenly, a large, calloused hand tangles firmly in your hair, yanking your head upward. Your eyes snap open wide in shock as Azriel's thick, heavy cock is pushed right in front of your face. Without a moment to hesitate, you part your lips and take him deep into your mouth, a pathetic whine vibrating in the back of your throat as Rhysand sharply slaps your bare ass, violently shifting your hips to grind you further against both of their cocks.

Azriel watches you closely, a dark, approving nod cutting through the dim room as he grips your jaw and begins to fuck your mouth with slow, deliberate thrusts.

Beneath you, Cassian groans, his chest rumbling against yours. "Fuck... this is the tightest pussy I've ever fucked," he grits out, his pace stuttering as he looks down between your bodies. "I don't know if she'll even be able to fit Az's thick head."

Rhysand nods in agreement, his hands gripping your waist tighter as your internal walls involuntarily clench and spasm around them both. The sudden, suffocating tightness drags twin, ragged groans from both men.

Azriel pulls his length smoothly out of your mouth, leaving your lips swollen and wet. He cups your flushed cheeks in his large hands, his dark eyes burning with anticipation.

"Well, Cass, that's why you two are down here fucking her," Azriel purrs darkly, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "Gotta stretch her out nice and wide for my cock."

The humiliation and the overwhelming physical friction break whatever restraint you had left. Your eyes go wide and glassy as a violent tremor overtakes your entire body, and you squirt heavily around the two thick cocks buried deep inside you.

"Oh—fuck," Cassian gasps, his hands sliding up your back as he shivers from your flood. "Look at you, soaking us both. Such a magnificent, greedy little whore."

"So wet, so obedient," Rhysand praises softly, pressing his forehead against yours as he rides out your aftershocks with slow, punishing rolls of his hips. "You're taking both of us like a dream, darling. A completely ruined, good little girl."

As your breathing stutters and your core throbs with frantic, unfulfilled need, you begin to thrash slightly against them, desperate and unmoored.

"Please—please," you sob out, tears pricking your eyes as you beg blindly toward Azriel. "Azriel, please, I need you. Put it anywhere, just put it in me—fuck me, please, I'll take it, I'll take all of you, just give me your cock, please!"

Both Cassian and Rhysand let out low, dark chuckles that rumble right through you as they pick up their pace, driving into your stretched, aching heat harder and faster.

"Listen to her, Rhys," Cassian teases, his voice dripping with wicked amusement as he pounds upward into you. "Begging for another cock when she's already stuffed to the absolute brim with us. So greedy."

"Pathetic, isn't it?" Rhysand agrees smoothly, his hips snapping forward to hit every single sensitive spot inside you. "Can't stand being empty for even a second. Just a desperate little whore who needs to be filled from every possible angle."

You let out a helpless, breathless moan, your face flushing hot at their mockery, but you are too far gone to care. Seeing your distress, Azriel leans forward from his chair, sliding his hands under your arms to support your weight as he captures your lips in a deep, bruising kiss. You strain your neck eagerly, parting your mouth for him and moaning into the kiss just as Cassian and Rhysand both tense violently beneath you.

A ragged, synchronized groan tears from the two males as they flood you completely, filling your overstaturated heat with wave after wave of hot, heavy seed.

As their climax subsides into heavy, shuddering breaths, Rhysand is the first to pull back. He slips smoothly out of you, the sudden emptiness wringing a soft moan from your lips. He immediately shifts behind you, his large hands rubbing soothingly over your sweat-slicked back and hips as he presses a trail of worshipful kisses down your spine. A heartbeat later, Cassian follows, sliding out of your heat with a wet pull that leaves you whimpering in the sudden, aching void.

Your internal walls clench and spasm around the emptiness left behind. Without warning, Rhysand brings his palm down in a sharp, stinging slap right across your swollen, oversensitive pussy, drawing a loud, startled whine from your chest.

"Better hurry, Azriel," Rhysand murmurs, his hand lingering to stroke soothingly over the sting as he looks across the room. "This pussy is already ready for your cock."

Azriel's dark eyes flare, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face as he stands up from the chair. He steps forward, his gaze locked onto yours before he glances down at the other two males.

"Get out," Azriel commands quietly.

Cassian and Rhysand exchange a knowing, satisfied look and nod. Before they pull away entirely, both lean in to press deep, lingering kisses to your lips, tasting themselves on your mouth, before turning and walking silently out of the candlelit bedroom. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind them, leaving you completely bare, trembling, and entirely alone with the shadows and Azriel.

Azriel lets out a low, rough moan as you shift onto your hands and knees, the posture putting your flushed, dripping heat and swollen flesh completely on display. He circles the edge of the large mattress like a slow, deliberate predator closing in on its prey, his dark eyes never leaving your trembling body.

You let out a helpless, breathy whine as his large, calloused hand trails firmly over your trembling backside, squeezing the sensitive flesh before he dips lower. He leans in from the edge of the bed, pressing his lips in a soft, worshipful kiss directly against your ass cheek, the contrast of his gentle touch against the raw intensity of the room making your spine arch and a fresh wave of heat pool deep inside you.

Azriel's smirk deepens. He steps in close, standing right in front of you on the mattress, and loops a hand under your chin to lift your face upward. He gives a slow, approving nod, prompting you to shift your weight and rise up higher onto your knees to meet him.

"Are you going to be my good girl?" he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your swollen lower lip.

You nod quickly, but he doesn't accept the silent answer. "Words, sweetheart," he prompts softly.

A breathless smile touches your lips, and you look up into his dark, hungry eyes. "I'm your good girl," you whisper, the confession trembling in the quiet air.

Azriel's smile turns wicked. "You want my cock?"

You glance down, your gaze dropping to the thick, heavy length straining against his trousers, and you nod eagerly. Azriel nods along with you, his voice dropping to a low, commanding purr. "Lay back, sweetheart."

You obey instantly, sinking backward onto the soft sheets. But the moment your back hits the mattress, a swarm of dark, tangible shadows dart out from the corners of the room. Before you can even react, the shadows wrap tightly around your wrists, yanking your arms upward and outward to lock them securely into the waiting handcuffs on the bedposts. Your eyes widen in sudden shock against the restraint, the cold metal biting into your skin as you are left completely bared and helpless before him.

Azriel sees the flash of surprise in your widened eyes and immediately leans down, capturing your lips in a deep, grounding kiss to chase away any sudden tension.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs against your mouth, his thumb gently stroking your cheekbone.

You nod quickly beneath him, but seeing his raised eyebrow, you force your voice past your dry throat. "Yes," you whisper, shivering as the metal handcuffs clink softly against the headboard.

Azriel nods, satisfied, and steps between your spread knees. He wraps your legs securely around his waist, hiking your hips up toward him.

"Ready for my cock?" he asks, his voice thick and dark.

You let out a desperate, breathless moan and nod your head. Azriel chuckles low in his chest at your eagerness, and with agonizing slowness, he presses forward, slipping just the thick head of his cock inside your saturated heat. The sudden, immense stretch wrings a loud, broken moan straight from your lips as your inner walls clench helplessly around him.

Azriel's massive wings flare outward in a sudden, breathtaking display behind him, a low, ragged moan tearing from his throat as he buries himself deeper. "Fuck, they were right," he grits out, his dark eyes burning down at you. "You're so fucking tight."

You moan around a breathless nod, your hips straining upward against the metal cuffs as the sheer size of him stretches you to the absolute limit. Azriel leans up slightly, a thread of spit falling from his mouth down onto his thick, throbbing length. He grabs his hand, slicking the excess saliva over his heavy shaft to serve as warm lube before pressing his hips forward again, sliding another agonizing inch inside your pulsing heat.

When he lets out a deep, shuddering groan, your voice cracks with overstimulation. "Fuck... it's so big, it feels so good, Az—"

Azriel chuckles darkly, his muscles bunching as he holds himself right where he is, trapping you in the agonizing stretch. "I'm only halfway, baby," he whispers, his voice thick with dangerous promise.

You let out a helpless whine at his teasing, and Azriel's smirk turns predatory. He leans down, capturing your lips in a deep, bruising kiss that muffles your next gasp.

You moan softly against his mouth, your hips twitching against the handcuffs as much as the restraints allow. He pulls back just an inch, his dark eyes searching yours as he whispers, "You want more?"

You nod frantically, your voice trembling as you look up at him. "I want it all, Az," you breathe, the confession breaking on a sob of need. "I want everything."

Azriel's smirk softens into something hungry and intensely possessive. He crushes his lips to yours one last time and, with a slow, devastating thrust, sinks all the way inside you, burying his massive length to the hilt.

The sheer fullness of him wrings a loud, simultaneous moan from both of your throats, your back arching off the mattress as your inner walls stretch and grip every single inch of him.

Azriel freezes instantly, his large hands gripping your hips to hold you entirely still as he lets you adjust to the sheer, overwhelming stretch of his size. "I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rumble against your ear as he waits for your breathing to steady. "Take it all. Just breathe around me..."

He starts to move, pulling back slowly before driving back in with deliberate, measured power. Every thrust fills you completely, the friction exquisite and agonizing as the metal cuffs jingle with your frantic movements.

"That's it," Azriel praises softly, his breath hot against your neck as he sets a deep, relentless rhythm. "Look at you taking me, so good and tight for me... Such a greedy little thing. Do you feel how deep I am, baby? Tell me how it feels."

You let out a shattered, breathy moan against his skin, your fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair as the friction of his relentless pace shatters your equilibrium all over again. Your inner walls clamp down around him in wave after wave of intense, blinding contractions, milking him as you spill over the edge.

Azriel shudders violently at the sudden, crushing warmth of your climax, a low, guttural growl vibrating deep in his chest. With a final, bruising thrust that drives him as deep as humanly possible, he loses his control. He buries himself to the hilt and empties himself inside you in thick, hot pulses, his body going rigid as he groans your name against your lips.

As his breathing slowly begins to steady, his shadows flutter like cool silk against your wrists, sliding the metal cuffs open and releasing your aching arms. Your hands immediately fly up to cup his face and pull him back down into a deep, desperate kiss, both of you whining softly into each other's mouths as the aftershocks of your shared release fade into the quiet room.

"So good... you feel so fucking good, Az," you moan, your voice breaking as your hips buck helplessly against his driving pace.

Azriel smirks, the dark heat in his eyes intensifying. He shifts downward, pressing open-mouthed, branding kisses down your sensitive neck before closing his lips over your stiff nipple. He bites down with just enough pressure to make you cry out, sucking hard as his tongue laps over the peak.

He feels your inner walls violently clench and ripple around him as a fresh wave of pleasure tears through you. "Come, baby," he rasps against your skin.

You shatter immediately, a high, breathless moan tearing from your throat. But instead of slowing down, Azriel grips your hips tighter, his pace turning fast, brutal, and relentless as he chases his own edge.

You ride the waves of your climax right into his, your body pulsing around him until you tip over the edge again. Azriel lets out a dark, disbelieving chuckle against your collarbone. "Fuck, sweetheart... did you come again?"

You can only nod frantically against his shoulder, your fingers twitching against the metal handcuffs.

He pulls back just enough to look into your flushed face, his thumb thumbing your lower lip. "How bad do you want me to come?" he taunts, his voice thick with ragged need.

You whimper, tears of overstimulation pricking your eyes. "So bad, Az... need your cum."

Azriel groans, the sound raw and desperate, and crashes his lips back onto yours.

You tilt your head back, breathless and undone, whispering against his mouth, "Please, Az... come in me. Come on, baby, I need your cum so bad."

That pushes him completely over the edge. A violent shutter runs through Azriel's massive frame as he buries himself deep, spilling his hot, heavy release inside you in thick, pulsing waves. He buries his face in your neck, gasping your name as he finishes, riding out the last of his tremors before slowly, softly slipping his heavy length out of your aching heat.

At a flick of his wrist, his cool shadows dissolve the metal cuffs around your wrists. Your hands instantly fly up, tangling deep into his dark hair as you pull him down to you, both of you kissing and whining softly into the quiet room as you come down together.

Azriel's lips linger against yours for a long, tender moment before he shifts his grip, sliding his strong arms beneath you. With effortless strength, he lifts you up, your legs instantly wrapping around his waist as he carries you out of the bedroom and toward the adjoining master bathroom.

As the sound of running water grows louder, realizing that Rhysand and Cassian are still inside the large, steam-filled shower, a soft whine of shyness escapes your lips. You immediately bury your flushed face into the warm crook of Azriel's neck.

Azriel chuckles, a low vibration against your chest, and murmurs soothingly as he carries you past the glass partition. He gently sets you down inside the spacious, inviting warmth of the deep bathtub, making sure the hot water laps soothingly around your aching, sensitive skin. He settles down right behind you, his broad chest pressing flush against your back as his strong arms wrap securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

The steam parts as Rhysand and Cassian step out of the enclosed shower area, grabbing thick towels. They pad over to the edge of the tub, leaning down to press lingering, affectionate kisses to your cheeks and lips.

Rhysand's violet eyes glint with a quiet, knowing amusement as he brushes his thumb gently across your lower lip. "Don't worry," Rhysand whispers softly, his voice a rich purr. "We won't tell Eris where you are."

A genuine, relieved smile touches your lips, and you lean back further into Azriel's hold. Instantly, Azriel's arms tighten like iron bands around your waist, his grip possessive as he tugs you even closer to his chest, placing a protective barrier between you and the other two males.

Rhysand notices the subtle shift, a single dark eyebrow raising in silent acknowledgment, but he simply nods. With a final, lingering look, Rhysand and Cassian finish drying off and quietly walk out of the room, leaving the two of you alone in the warm, quiet sanctuary of the tub.

You close your eyes, letting out a soft sigh as you lean fully back against Azriel's solid, warm chest, the tension slowly bleeding out of your muscles in the hot water.

"What is going to happen?" you whisper, the quiet question hanging in the steam-filled air.

Azriel hums, a note of gentle confusion in his chest as his finger traces a slow, soothing pattern down your bare arm. You shift, turning around in his embrace so you can look up into his face.

"What happens now?" you ask, your voice soft.

Azriel glances down, his dark eyes tracing the curve of your lips before meeting your gaze with sudden, intense clarity. "You can stay here... with me."

Your mouth parts a little in surprise, the weight of his words settling over you. A faint, rare smile touches the corners of Azriel's mouth as he reaches up to tuck a damp lock of hair behind your ear. "Stay with us," he murmurs, his tone softening with an unexpected tenderness. "And when you're ready... we'll tell Eris where you are and that you're safe."

You nod slowly, a deep sense of relief washing away the last of your fears. You lean in, capturing his lips in one final, lingering kiss before relaxing completely back into his arms, letting the warm water and his steady heartbeat anchor you in the quiet safety of the room.

[hockeylover25]

Desperate Mates*

Eris Vanserra x FemaleMate!Reader

Summary: Eris has been the new High Lord for now two months, and it’s been two months since you have fully touched your mate. So you break.

Warnings: cock warming, mean!eris, softdom!eris, sub!reader, dirty talk (slut brought up), anal, fingering (both), ass eating, bondage (fire bondage), unprotected sex, nicknames (dove and baby)

Authors note: gosh… I have missed writing for Eris, and let’s just say I went… far with this. It’s been a while since I wrote something where the whole plot is literally smut… soooo as always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻

Main Masterlist:

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The heavy oak door of your shared chambers clicks shut behind you, the sound feeling entirely too loud in the cavernous, quiet room. You let out a long, exhausted sigh, leaning your forehead against the cool wood for a brief moment before turning around to survey the space.

The bed is pristine. Untouched. The pillows are plumped, the heavy velvet throws neatly draped, and the fireplace crackles with a low, dying ember that casts flickering shadows across an empty room.

For a fleeting second, when you heard the faint rustle of parchment from the adjoining study, your chest tightened with a sudden, breathless burst of hope. But the silence that follows quickly crushes it. Another night. Another evening spent navigating the biting court politics of the Autumn Court alone, only to return to a bed that has stayed stubbornly cold.

He has been High Lord for exactly two months. Sixty days of endless ledgers, frantic emissaries, shattered alliances, and a crown that seems intent on crushing him before he even has time to adjust its weight. You knew what you were signing up for when you accepted a bond with the second-born son of Beron—a cunning survivor wrapped in silk and sharp edges. But knowing the reality of his ascension and actually living through the ghost of a mate are two entirely different things.

Your fingers trace the heavy fabric of your sleeve as you slowly cross the room, shedding your outer layers with slow, leaden movements. The exhaustion in your bones is deep, but the hollow ache in your chest is worse. You slip beneath the heavy blankets, pulling them up to your chin, staring up at the intricate carvings on the high canopy of the bed.

The clock on the mantelpiece ticks away the minutes. The fire pops, settling into ash.

You are just drifting toward the heavy, dreamless border of sleep when you hear it—the softest scrape of a boot against the stone floor outside, followed by the faint, muffled click of the latch turning with agonizing care.

You open your eyes to see Eris standing beside his desk as he takes off his jacket, the exhaustion carved deep into the sharp lines of his face. Without a word, he sits down at the small desk to do more work.

The scratch of his quill against parchment pauses, replaced by the heavy, bone-deep sigh of a man carrying the weight of a court on his shoulders. He rubs a hand over his face, fingers tangling in his vibrant copper hair, before dipping the pen back into the ink to resume his endless calculations.

You bite back a sharp retort, pushing the heavy blankets aside with agonizing care. Barefoot, you slip across the cold stone floor like a shadow, moving right up behind his chair before he even realizes you've left the bed.

"...tariffs on the eastern grain shipments need to be renegotiated before the frost—" he mutters under his breath, leaning over a ledger with a scowl.

You don't give him time to finish the sentence. You step into his space, wrapping your arms securely around his broad shoulders and pulling him back against your chest.

For a fraction of a second, every muscle in Eris's body goes rigid—the instinctual, hardwired reaction of a predator caught off guard. Then, the tension instantly dissolves. His shoulders drop, a shuddering breath rushing past his lips as his nose dips toward your neck, inhaling deeply. He melts into your touch, turning his head slightly to press his face right against your collarbone, chasing your scent as if it's the only thing anchoring him to reality.

A small, affectionate smile touches your lips. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his warm cheek, letting your fingers trace the line of his jaw.

"Let's go to sleep, my love," you whisper against his skin.

Eris lets out one final, ragged breath, dropping his quill onto the desk with a soft clatter. His hands come up to cover yours where they are wrapped around his chest, his thumbs pressing reassuringly into your wrists.

He covers your hands where they rest over his chest, his thumb stroking your knuckles, but he shakes his head with a tired, rueful sound.

"I can't, my dove," he murmurs, the pet name catching slightly on his exhaustion. "I need to get these trade manifests finished for the Dawn Court before morning, or they'll use the delay as leverage."

A soft, defeated sigh slips past your lips. Instead of pulling away, you let your weight press closer, resting your head heavily against the warm crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of woodsmoke, autumn leaves, and the sharp spice that is uniquely him.

Your hand drifts down his arm, fingers tracing the taut lines of his shirtsleeve and the flexing muscles beneath as you seek any anchor. At the tactile touch, a shiver runs through him. Eris smiles against the heavy air, tilting his head back to give you better access, exposing the warm column of his throat.

You don't hesitate. You capture his lips in a desperate, hungry kiss, pouring every ounce of the last two months of loneliness, longing, and sleepless nights into the press of your mouth against his.

Eris freezes for a heartbeat before a low, involuntary moan breaks from the back of his throat. His hands snap up to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him as he opens up to you, kissing you back with an equal, ravenous fervor that instantly makes the past two months of empty beds feel entirely unbearable.

The friction of the movement sends a jolt straight through him. With a sharp intake of breath, Eris pivots smoothly in the wooden chair, his strong hands gripping your waist and effortlessly hoisting you up to settle right in his lap.

The sudden shift leaves you flush against him, and as your lips part, you catch his bottom lip between yours, nibbling sharply. The sensation draws a loud, ragged moan straight from his chest, the sound thick with a sudden, overwhelming spike of desire that completely shatters his focus.

Emboldened by the heavy heat in his touch, you shift your weight, slowly rolling your hips against him.

The effect is instantaneous. Eris lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, his hands flying up to grip your hips with sudden, vice-like force, halting your movement mid-motion. His chest heaves against yours as he tilts his head back, his eyes dark and dilated with restraint as your lips trail hot and eager down his jaw and press against the sensitive skin of his neck.

"Stop—" he groans, his voice trembling as his fingers clench tightly into the fabric of your clothes, trying desperately to anchor himself even as his body betrays him.

You ignore his feeble protest, your lips mapping a heated trail of kisses down the column of his throat as Eris lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his head falling back completely against the top of the wooden chair. The fight rapidly draining out of him, he abandons any pretense of resistance, his hands sliding up to grip your hips as you begin to grind down against him in a slow, torturous rhythm.

"I've missed my mate," you whisper hotly against his sensitized skin, your voice trembling with raw need. "Please, Eris..."

Another deep, helpless moan tears from his throat, the sound rich with surrender as your hands slide down his chest, tracing the firm contours beneath his shirt before dipping straight to the waistband of his pants.

Eris lets out a low, ragged groan, his fingers clenching into your back. "Dove... I need to get my work done..." he breathes out, though the words lack any real conviction, melting away entirely beneath the heavy fog of desire.

You pull back just enough to look at him, offering a soft, wicked nod before pressing a tender kiss to his lips. "Let me do this, baby," you murmur against his mouth.

The moment your hand slips past the barrier of his clothes and wraps firmly around his length, Eris throws his head back with a loud, unrestrained moan, his entire body bowing up into your touch as you begin to stroke him.

Slowly, heavily, Eris lifts his head, his eyes burning with a dark, fevered intensity as he drags you into a deep, bruising kiss.

"Dove..." he breathes against your lips, the word a ragged caress.

You open your eyes, looking down at him with a silent, heavy-lidded plea, giving him a slow nod. A wicked, strained smile curves across his lips, though his chest continues to heave.

"You can have my cock," he murmurs, his hands gripping your hips with an unyielding, possessive pressure. "But no moving."

You immediately let out a soft pout, your lower lip pushing out in blatant protest. To emphasize your displeasure, your hand tightens around his length, milking him firmly through the friction.

A loud, tortured groan rips from Eris's throat, his eyes slamming shut as his back arches off the chair. But even as he trembles under the sheer agony of the sensation, he forces his eyes open, shaking his head with a stern edge to his voice.

"No, dove," he groans, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as he pins you in place. "If you want my cock, you do it my way."

You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the unfairness of his rule hovering on your tongue, but the heavy, aching need wins out. You offer a slow, yielding nod.

A dark, victorious gleam flashes in Eris's eyes. Without breaking your gaze, he reaches down, his warm hand sliding smoothly beneath the hem of your short nightgown. His long fingers find the scrap of silk, slipping your underwear aside with practiced ease, baring you completely to his heat.

He shifts his grip on your hips, aligning you perfectly over him. With a low, breathless growl, Eris guides you down, letting you slowly settle your weight all the way down onto his thick, aching length.

The sudden, absolute fullness steals the breath right from your lungs, and a soft gasp breaks past your lips as you finally take him inside.

A sharp gasp tears from Eris's throat as you completely settle over him, the overwhelming heat and tightness of you making his entire body shudder. But true to his ruthless nature and his mountain of paperwork, he lets out a low, grounding growl, wrapping your legs and arms securely around him to lock you into place. With his hands free, he looks past your shoulder, his eyes locking back onto the ledgers as he deliberately dips his quill and goes right back to writing.

You bury your face into the warm crook of his neck, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against his throat, before letting out a helpless whine directly into his ear about the exquisite, delicious stretch of his cock filling you completely.

Eris merely hums, the vibration rumbling deep in his chest. Without looking up from his parchment, a heavy hand comes down sharply against your bare ass with a resounding smack.

The sudden sting shocks a loud gasp from your lips, and your hips instinctively twitch forward, grinding a fraction of an inch against his length.

A deep, wicked chuckle rumbles from Eris's throat at your breathless reaction, his pen scratching steadily across the page as he murmurs against your hair, "I told you, no moving, dove. Keep that pretty mouth quiet and take your punishment."

You lean back just enough to break the direct line of his gaze from the ledger, looking down at him through half-mast eyes.

"Slip off my dress, please, love," you whisper, the plea dripping with sweet temptation.

Eris's eyes drop instantly to your chest, tracing the rise and fall of your breathing. A long, shuddering sigh rattles in his chest. Abandoning all lingering pretense of productivity, he drops his quill onto the desk with a sharp clatter. You immediately raise your arms, and his hands move to the hem of your short nightgown, lifting the fabric up and over your head, leaving you completely bare in his lap.

A sharp, ragged breath escapes him as your hands move up to your own chest, fingers rolling and pinching your sensitive nipples. Eris watches you with dark, dilated eyes, shaking his head at your blatant defiance before his hand sweeps down to smack your ass once more.

A loud gasp and a helpless whine tear from your throat, your voice trembling as you cry out his name. "Eris, please..."

A low, rich chuckle rumbles in his chest, vibrating straight through where you are joined. "Dove," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "It hasn't even been ten minutes, and you're already breaking."

You nod eagerly, pressing a soft, desperate kiss to his lips before pulling back just a fraction. "I want my mate to fuck me," you whisper against his mouth.

A deep, resonant growl vibrates in Eris's chest, the sound dark and possessive as he looks up at you.

"Be a good mate and let me get my work done," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, "and then I'll fuck you."

You offer a slow, compliant nod, though the ache inside you makes the promise feel impossibly far away. Eris reaches up, gently taking your chin in his hand to tilt your face up, his fiery eyes locking onto yours with absolute authority.

"But you must be good," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. "No more whining, and no more touching yourself, dove."

You swallow hard and nod again, submitting to the rule. A pleased, dark smile touches his lips, and he gives your bare ass a firm, approving pat.

"Good girl," he praises softly, his fingers tightening on your waist before he resolutely turns his attention back to the unfinished ledgers on the desk, leaving you to ride out the exquisite, agonizing stillness of his weight.

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The hours bleed together in a haze of heat and heavy, aching stillness. You stay completely still just as he commanded, melting over his length as if keeping him warm, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier against the quiet scratch of his quill. Just as you are drifting off to the very edge of sleep, a firm, grounding pat lands against your bare ass.

"Dove, you awake?" Eris whispers, his voice low and rich in the dim room.

You nod softly against his shoulder, letting out a tired breath. A pleased smile curves his lips, and before you can process his movement, he stands straight up from the chair, keeping you cradled securely against him with your lower half still locked tightly around his cock.

A sharp, involuntary whine slips past your lips as the sudden shift forces you to grind helplessly down against his length.

Eris lets out a soft, soothing coo, his hands resting on your hips. "Look at my good mate," he praises, his voice thick with approval. "You were so good for me, dove."

A sleepy, proud smile touches your lips, and he leans in to press a tender, lingering kiss to your mouth. But the sweet relief is short-lived; the moment he gently lifts you up and off his cock, a hollow, devastating ache tears through you.

You immediately whine, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you cry out, "Eris, please. Just fuck me."

A dark, dangerous fire flares in his eyes as he listens to your desperate plea. Eris nods slowly, his breathing turning ragged. He sets your feet down onto the cool stone floor for only a heartbeat before he smoothly turns you around, pressing your chest flat against the cluttered surface of his desk and bending you over the wood. He crowds in close behind you, his hands gripping your hips with absolute, possessive intent as he murmurs right against your ear, "I'm gonna fuck you, dove."

A soft gasp escapes you as the magic ignites, a cool, shimmering ring of pure flame snapping into place around your wrists. The heat is harmless, but the solid, unyielding barrier leaves your arms securely bound behind your back, rendering you entirely at his mercy.

You shift restlessly against the wood, a low moan slipping from your lips at the restriction, but Eris immediately hushes you, his tone dripping with protective warning. "Oh, baby, don't move," he murmurs against your skin, a hand soothing over your lower back. "You'll burn yourself."

The warning dissolves into a ragged breath as his lips press a soft, worshipping kiss against your bare ass. He lets out a low, desperate moan of his own, the sound raw with a hunger that has been denied for hours, before his tongue flicks out to trace and lap eagerly at your tight rim.

You let out a high, trembling cry, your forehead resting heavily against the cluttered papers of the desk as he parts your cheeks wider, taking his time to prep you. Before you can even catch your breath from the exquisite friction, one of his hands shifts away from your hip, and two long, calloused fingers slide effortlessly deep inside your soaking pussy.

A low, dark chuckle rumbles deep in Eris's throat as you surrender completely to the wood of the desk, your soft, ruined moans filling the quiet study as his tongue continues its relentless worship against your rim and his fingers stretch you open.

He pulls back slightly, a thick drop of spit sliding down to pool against your tight, aching entrance. His voice drops into a gravelly, teasing whisper right against your skin. "You wanna be fucked, dove? Where do you want my cock, though? Because it seems this greedy little ass wants me."

You shake your head against the desk in denial, desperate for him. Eris stands up to his full height, the sudden emptiness making you cry out as his fingers slide out of your pussy. You hear the heavy, deliberate scrape of him shifting behind you, and a sharp gasp breaks from your lips when the hot, heavy head of his cock taps firmly against your ass. He laughs softly at the immediate, instinctual way you lift your hips higher in offering.

Eris leans down, pressing the broad expanse of his chest flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear. "Are you sure, dove? Your ass is ready for me, baby."

You whine his name, your voice trembling with need as you press back against him. "No—want your cock in my pussy, please..."

A satisfied nod shifts the muscles of his back. He presses a tender kiss to your cheek, murmuring, "Another time, then."

You give a shaky, compliant nod, and Eris smiles, tilting your chin to the side to capture your lips in a deep, bruising kiss. As your lips part with a gasp, he guides his thick length away from your backside, sliding forward and sinking completely, gloriously home inside your soaked heat.

A shared, breathless gasp tears from both of your throats as he fills you to the hilt, the sudden, overwhelming stretch dragging a raw growl of pure, possessive pleasure from Eris. You clench around him instinctively, the walls of your heat milking him, and Eris's grip on your hips turns vice-tight, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"Relax, dove," he groans, his voice rough and strained against your ear.

You force your muscles to slacken just a fraction, and the moment you do, Eris starts to move, driving into you with a heavy, deliberate rhythm that rattles your bones and sends loud, uninhibited moans tumbling from your lips.

As the pace quickens, a large hand leaves your hip, reaching up to fist tightly in your hair. He gives a firm, commanding tug, forcing your head back so your neck is exposed to him as he leans in close, his hot breath washing over your ear.

"Look at you," he rasps, his voice dropping into a dark, filthy purr as his hips relentlessly pound into you. "Such a greedy, needy little mate. Look how soaked you are—your pussy is still gripping me like a vice, clenching around my cock even after you sat on it and starved for an hour. Did you like that, huh? Did you like suffering on my length while I worked, just waiting for me to take you?"

He releases your hair, both hands dropping instantly to grab a fistful of your ass cheeks as he straightens taller, leaning back to drive deeper, harder angles into your heat. A guttural growl rips from his chest as a heavy, stinging slap cracks across your bare ass, the sharp impact making you cry out and clench around him all over again. Eris smiles wickedly against your shoulder at your undone state. Without breaking his rhythm, he pulls his hand away for a fraction of a second, sliding a finger into his mouth to coat it in his slick before pressing it firmly against your tight, yearning rim.

The unexpected intrusion stretches you wide, and a high, ecstatic shriek breaks from your lips as the double stimulation shatters your control, sending you crashing into a violent, blinding orgasm that ripples and squeezes tightly around his throbbing cock.

A low, rich chuckle rumbles in Eris's chest as he slides his first finger past your tight, resisting muscle, completely sealing it inside you.

You stutter out a breathless, confused protest against the desk, your voice trembling. "Baby, what are you—"

You cut off with a sharp, shattering gasp as he smoothly slips a second finger in right beside the first, stretching you wide and filling that aching, empty place you had denied just moments before.

Eris chuckles darkly against your ear, the heavy, relentless pace of his hips stuttering only for a second as he drives back into your pussy while working his fingers deep into your ass.

"You wanted to be fucked, dove," he murmurs, his voice thick and rough with absolute satisfaction. "So you're getting fucked—every single inch of you."

A wide, breathless smile breaks across your face at his words, and when Eris turns his head just enough to catch your reflection in the polished glass of a nearby cabinet, a matching, wicked smirk curls his lips.

"You dirty slut," he whispers, the filth of it rolling off his tongue like a caress.

You nod eagerly against the wood of the desk, your voice a ragged, broken gasp. "I'm your slut, baby..."

Eris dips his head in deep, dark approval. With a sudden, deliberate shift of his hips, he pulls completely out of your pussy, the abrupt, agonizing emptiness drawing a loud, startled whine of protest from your throat. But before you can even begin to beg, Eris smiles down at you, sliding his fingers out of your rear with a wet pop and immediately aligning his thick, throbbing length against your slick, unprepared rim.

With a slow, heavy push, he sinks straight into your ass.

A loud, reverberating moan tears from your lips as the thick stretch of him fills you entirely, tearing a ragged breath from his own lungs. Eris leans down, resting the side of his head heavily against your shoulder as he begins to move, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your skin right before he whispers into the quiet room, "Gods, I love you."

A large hand rises from your hip, his fingers tangling roughly into your hair to anchor you as he begins to move, driving into your tight rear with a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm.

"How does it feel, dove?" he whispers, his breath hot against your ear as he watches you unravel.

You nod blindly, your eyes squeezed tightly shut against the overwhelming sensation. A fond, wicked smile touches his lips. "Feels good," he prompts softly.

You nod again, a ragged moan breaking past your lips. "So fucking good..."

A dark, approving rumble vibrates in his chest. Without breaking his slow, deep cadence, Eris reaches down, wrapping a firm hand around your ankle and lifting your leg up to rest flat against the cluttered surface of the desk. The sudden shift changes the angle entirely, tearing a sharp, breathless cry from your throat as the stretch deepens, and Eris sinks his thick length even further into your burning, tight hole.

The change in angle turns every inch of him inside you into a brand-new kind of torture. Eris anchors his hand firmly in your hair, holding you captive against the desk as his hips pick up a steady, devastating cadence, stretching you wider with every slow, heavy thrust.

While his cock buries deep inside your rear, his free hand drops lower, sliding between your thighs to find your slick, hypersensitive bundle of nerves. When his thumb brushes directly over your clit, a violent tremor shoots through your entire body.

"Look at you, coming apart for me," he murmurs, his voice rough and dripping with dark satisfaction as he rubs his thumb in tight, agonizingly slow circles against you. "Tell me how it feels, dove. Tell me."

You bury your face against the wood, your voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic sob under the overwhelming onslaught of pleasure. "It's so fucking good..." you gasp, your whole body trembling as you cling to the edge of the desk. "Keep fucking me... please, just keep fucking me..."

Eris chuckles low and possessive against your neck, driving deeper, harder, completely uncaring of how thoroughly he has unraveled you. He knows as well as you do that he has driven you straight into oblivion, and he isn't going to let you go until there is nothing left of you but his.

You whine pathetically into the wood of the desk, reaching blindly backward, desperate to pull him closer, to touch him, to feel his skin against yours.

Hearing the frantic need in your voice, Eris grants the mercy. With a final, heavy stroke, he slips completely out of your ass, drawing a sharp yelp of surprise from your lips.

The fire encircling your wrists flickers and dies at a murmured command, leaving your skin warm and stinging as he lets you go—only to catch you immediately against his chest.

With a low groan, Eris scoops you up in his arms, turning you away from the desk. You whine softly, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair, pulling his face down toward yours.

"Kiss me," you sob against his lips, desperate for the grounding weight of him. "Eris, please... kiss me."

A soft, fond sound catches in his throat. He crashes his mouth down onto yours, swallowing your plea in a deep, bruising kiss that tastes of victory and absolute possession. He carries you across the room, laying you gently into the mattress, though his weight follows you down instantly, caging you in.

"My sweet mate," he coos, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, aching tenderness that hits you harder than the friction of his body. He presses a trail of soft, worshipful kisses down your jaw to your collarbone, murmuring against your skin. "Look at you... completely undone for me. Are you falling apart, my sweet girl? Hmm?"

You arch up beneath him, hands roaming frantically over his broad shoulders, pulling him closer. "I'm yours," you whimper, tears pricking your eyes from the sheer intensity of it. "It's so good, Eris... please."

"I know, dove. I've got you," he whispers, shifting between your thighs and sliding straight back into your drenched, aching pussy.

The slow, reverent slide of him steals the breath right out of your lungs. He starts to move—not with the punishing speed of before, but with a deep, deliberate cadence, watching your face as the pleasure builds all over again. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss just as the tension snaps through both of you, dragging you over the edge into a blinding, shared climax.

The residual shivers of your shared climax still ripple through your skin as you lie tangled together in the sheets. Eris props himself up on one elbow, his chest heaving as he looks down at you, a soft, rare gentleness softening the sharp angles of his face.

"You're shaking, sweet girl," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, feather-light path down your flushed cheek. He leans down, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to your lips. "Look at you... completely wrecked for me."

You melt into the touch, a breathless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as your arms wrap loosely around his neck. "Only for you," you whisper, pulling him down for another slow, unhurried kiss that tastes of sweet victory and exhaustion.

He coos softly against your skin, a low, rumbling sound of deep satisfaction. "My beautiful, perfect mate," he praises, his lips brushing over your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone in a trail of worshipful kisses that leave you gasping softly beneath him. "I could keep you like this for a lifetime and never grow tired of it."

"Then don't let me go," you murmur, your fingers tangling sleepily in his hair as the affectionate haze wraps around you both.

"Never," he promises, his voice dropping into a dark, absolute vow against your pulse.

He shifts between your thighs with practiced ease, sliding straight back into your drenched, aching pussy with a slow, heavy push that steals the breath right out of your lungs. The familiar, perfect heat of him fills you entirely, and as he begins to move with a fierce, tender rhythm, the world narrows down entirely to the friction of his body against yours.

The tension snaps all over again. You shatter together with a ragged cry, clinging to his shoulders as Eris buries his face in your neck, holding you impossibly close.

As he finally begins to pull back, breaking the heavy rhythm of his hips, your hand reaches out to catch his wrist.

"Wait," you whisper, your voice thick and pleading as you look up at him. "Let's stay like this."

Eris pauses, his breath hitching as he holds himself steady inside you. A faint, reluctant frown touches his brow as he looks down at your flushed face.

"Dove," he murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. "We need to clean up..."

You shake your head vigorously against the pillows, your fingers tightening around his hand. "We can together later. Just... stay here. Please."

For a long moment, he just looks at you, the resistance melting away under the quiet desperation in your eyes. A slow, fond smile touches the corners of his mouth.

"Alright," he whispers, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your lips. "Just like this."

He shifts his weight carefully, sliding in beside you and gathering you back against his chest in a tight, protective spoon. He settles securely behind you, letting his heavy, spent length remain comfortably buried deep inside you, keeping you full and anchored as the quiet night closes in around them.

[hockeylover25]

Arrangement Update

Heyyyy… soooo I was originally gonna post the new chapter tonight but during my last edit I realized it’s nothing the way I wanted and how I wanted to go with this story😭

I believe the subplot I was going to do would be perfect for a completely other story but not with the one where the plot is mostly explained with reader being raised to fear Rhysand.

Because of this, I am redrafting the fourth chapter and I am very sorry. I know most of you are very excited for this and I was too but I want the writing to be the best I can do and that writing was not. I have other drafts I will be posting and I will work on the arrangement when I can but it will most likely be fully done when I get done with my class which is in a week

I am starting the new draft for chapter four tomorrow because I have a day off so I hope to come out with it on Friday or Saturday

Once again… very sorry about this everyone. As always love you all🫶🏻

[hockeylover25]

Still Yours*

Rhysand x Mate!Reader

Summary: it’s been centuries since your mate was saved from living under the mountain, but it still affects his everyday life. Until this morning.

Warnings: talks about under the mountain, talks of murder, smut, p in v, sub!rhys, softdom!reader, small spit kink, oral (both), face riding, riding cock as well…, small praise kink… literally all filth.

Authors note: I promise I am working an the arrangement, I’ve just been cleaning my drafts out (including this one), so you guys have something to read because work and school has been kicking my ass😭. But as always, hope y’all enjoy🫶🏻

Main Masterlist:

✧༝┉˚🌙˚┉༝✧

The centuries you and Rhysand have shared feel like a heartbeat and a lifetime all at once. From the very first moment your paths crossed, the recognition was instantaneous—a pull so fundamental it felt as if your souls had been carved from the same stone. You were mates, a truth as certain as the rising sun, and you held that connection as the absolute anchor of your existence.

But then came the darkness of Under the Mountain. When he was taken, the world fractured. You spent those long, agonizing months in the shadow of the unknown, believing with every terrified fiber of your being that you had lost him forever. The relief of finding him was eclipsed only by the cold, sharp necessity of your actions: you hunted down the woman who had violated him, and you ended her. You killed her without hesitation, a final, brutal reclamation of what was yours.

Rhysand never spoke of what occurred in that nightmare. To him, the shame was a living thing. He carried the weight of it in silence, convinced that what happened to him was a betrayal of your bond, a stain he couldn't wash away. He retreated into himself, pulling back from your touch, from your closeness, his pride forcing him to hide the depth of his trauma.

The breaking point came years ago, on a night where the silence between you had grown too heavy to bear. You had tried to pull away after he recoiled from a kiss, unable to witness the wall he was building between you. When you turned your back, he collapsed to his knees, the raw, shattered sound of his distress shattering the illusion of his composure. That was the moment you truly saw the ruinous state of his mind.

That night was decades ago, but the ghost of it has never left. It haunts the quiet corners of your home, and it hangs like a suffocating shroud over the intimacy you once shared so effortlessly. It remains a ghost in your bed, a silent, lingering ache that dictates the rhythm of your life together—a shadow that refuses to fully recede, keeping the man you love held captive by a past that refuses to stay buried.

The intimacy you share now is undeniably potent, a testament to the decades spent weaving your lives back together. It is good—at times, truly amazing—but there is an indelible texture to it that remains unchanged. Even in the height of passion, you see the way his eyes glaze over, his focus slipping into a silent, internal distance as if he is bracing himself against an unseen tide. He is precise, he is attentive to your pleasure, yet he is curiously sparing with his own touch, rarely seeking the grounding weight of skin-to-skin contact that once defined your closeness. When it is over, he is careful, perhaps too careful; he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, a final act of devotion before he turns his back to you, retreating into the fortress of his own mind.

You never press him in those moments. You have learned that patience is the only path forward.

The ritual of the morning after is your constant. It is always the same: he wakes before the sun, the memory of his own perceived failings clearly weighing on him as he finds you in the dim light. He traces the line of your neck with his lips, his voice ragged with the familiar, desperate apology for not being the mate you deserve.

You always turn to meet him, pulling him back from the edge of that self-loathing. You hold his face between your hands, meeting his gaze with a certainty that never falters. You tell him, again and again, that he is the best mate you could ever ask for—that the man who wakes up beside you, imperfect and healing, is the only one you have ever wanted.

This morning, however, the space beside you is cold, the sheets already long since cooled. You let out a quiet sigh, the silence of the room heavier than usual. You slide out of bed, snagging his discarded shirt from the floor and pulling it over your head, the familiar scent of him wrapping around you like a shield before you head toward the bathroom.

You are mid-brush, the rhythmic sound of bristles against teeth the only noise in the quiet house, when you feel him. His hands slide around your waist, his touch firm and grounding as he presses his chest against your back. You smile into the mirror, your heart skipping a beat at the rare, unprompted contact. You finish up, rinsing your mouth and wiping it clean before turning around in his arms to offer him a small, soft kiss.

Rhysand smiles, a genuine warmth reaching his eyes. "Azriel needed me," he whispers, his voice low and laced with a trace of regret. "I'm sorry I wasn't with you."

You reach up, giving his cheek a gentle, reassuring pat. "It's okay, love," you murmur.

He nods, offering a weak, flickering smile before finally letting you go so you can get dressed. But as you move toward the wardrobe, you realize he hasn't retreated. The moment you leave the circle of his arms, he follows, dogging your steps, his gaze never leaving you. You let out a nervous, surprised giggle, glancing over your shoulder at him. It has been so long—perhaps decades—since he has been this present, this clingy, this unburdened by the usual distance he places between you. You certainly aren't complaining; you are simply trying to adjust to the sudden, fragile shift in the air.

As you begin to slip his shirt off to change, Rhysand's hands move with a sudden, possessive speed, tugging you flush against him. His mouth captures yours, and you gasp into the kiss, the intensity of it catching you entirely off guard. His hands slide down, gripping and squeezing your bare skin, grounding you firmly in his hold. You moan against his lips, the sudden surge of raw, physical hunger from him making your head spin.

When you finally pull back just enough to breathe, you look up at him, breathless and flushed. "What has gotten into you?" you whisper, your voice thick with both shock and a rising, eager heat.

Rhysand only shrugs, a flicker of his old, vulnerable insecurity crossing his features, and he whispers, "I'm sorry."

You immediately shake your head, reaching up to rub his shoulders, feeling the tension coiled beneath the muscle. "Don't be," you soothe, looking him directly in the eyes with soft, unwavering conviction. "Don't be at all. I'm just... I'm not used to this."

His expression crumbled, those violet eyes turning heavy with a familiar, crushing sadness. "That's the problem," he whispered, his voice raw.

You furrowed your brows, confused, but he continued, his tone thick with self-loathing. "I am your mate, and yet I act as if I'm merely your roommate. I never... I'm just a terrible mate."

You took a step toward him, a desperate need to bridge the distance, but he held up a warning finger, a low groan of frustration escaping him. He ran a trembling hand down his face, his posture wilting under the weight of his own perceived failures. "Why can't I be better for you? All I do is break your heart."

Before he could spiral further into the dark, you moved. You quickly pulled his shirt back over your head, not caring about the dishevelment, and surged forward to snatch his hand, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"Break my heart?" you repeated, your voice firm, echoing through the quiet room. "Break it a million times if you want, Rhysand. It has only ever been yours to break."

Rhysand went still, his breath hitching as he stared at you, his world seemingly narrowing down to the strength in your grip.

"You are my mate," you pressed on, your heart laid bare in the space between you. "You are my High Lord, yes—but I am your mate, and I am your High Lady. We are equals in a way no one will ever understand. And that is what makes you a good mate. Not the sex, not the affection, not the things you think you lack. It is you. Just you. And that is all I will ever need."

The silence that followed wasn't heavy or suffocating; it was absolute. You saw the frantic, jagged edges of his spirit begin to settle, the frantic need for perfection replaced by the simple, grounding truth of your bond.

Slowly, his shoulders dropped. He stepped forward, abandoning the distance he had maintained for so long. His hands came up to cup your cheeks, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your pulse stutter.

"Gods," he whispered, his voice trembling with a love so fierce it bordered on pain. "I love you."

He didn't wait for your response, and he didn't pull away. He leaned in and kissed you hard, a kiss that tasted of long-overdue surrender and the raw, beautiful promise of beginning again.

You gasp, the sudden strength of his arm hoisting you up catching your breath in your throat. He carries you to the edge of the bed and settles down, his grip firm as he positions you to straddle his lap. The air in the room feels electric, the usual hesitation and shadow replaced by a desperate, hungry clarity in his violet eyes.

He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged as he whispers against your lips, "Fuck me."

You pull back just an inch, your eyebrows furrowing in genuine surprise, the shock of his directness grounding you even as your pulse races. "What?" you breathe, needing to be sure you heard the man who has spent decades so carefully guarding himself.

Rhysand doesn't flinch, doesn't retreat. He keeps you locked securely against him, his hands possessive on your waist as he repeats, his voice a low, gravelly command, "I need my mate to fuck me."

Your eyes widen for a split second, the sheer weight of the realization sinking into your bones. Rhysand—the High Lord of the Night Court, the most feared and powerful male in Prythian—is asking for this. He is asking to be brought low, to let go of the burden of control and simply be yours.

A slow, knowing smirk spreads across your lips. You shift your hips, grinding against him with deliberate intent. Rhysand's head falls back, a sharp, guttural moan ripping from his throat as his hands clench into the sheets.

You lean down, pressing a lingering, heated kiss to his jaw before whispering against his ear, "Are you going to be a good mate for me, Rhys?"

He lets out a shaky, desperate breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he surrenders to the friction of your body against his. He doesn't hesitate, his voice barely a coherent sound as he gasps out, "Yes... I'm going to be your good boy."

Rhysand obeys instantly, ripping the shirt over his head and tossing it aside as if it were a shackle he was desperate to shed. Once he is bare, you finish pulling his trousers and underwear down, your hand closing around the heavy, aching length of his cock.

The sensation of your skin against his sends him crashing back against the pillows, his head thrown back as a loud, broken moan tears through the room. He starts to drift into that dark, distant place, but you won't let him. You drag your free hand over his rigid abs, your touch firm and grounding, and you coo softly, "Look at me, my sweet mate."

He gasps, his eyes snapping open as he fights to stay present, bracing himself back on his elbows to watch you. As you take him into your mouth, the sight of you—so focused on him, so possessive—shatters the last of his restraint. He whines, his hips bucking helplessly against you, his voice thick with a mixture of agony and ecstasy as he gasps, "Oh, fuck."

You draw a deep, appreciative moan from your throat as you work, your hand pinning his hips firmly against the mattress to keep him anchored to the sensation. Rhysand is completely undone; he whines and whimpers, the sounds high and desperate in his throat, his body trembling as he completely yields to your control. He is no longer the High Lord of the Night Court; he is a man pleading for release, his breath hitching in ragged intervals.

You feel the sharp, frantic tightening of his muscles—a clear warning that he is on the precipice. You pull back just as he reaches his breaking point, the sudden deprivation causing him to groan in protest. You leave a single, teasing kiss on his throbbing tip before moving swiftly, climbing up to straddle his thighs and hovering just above him, holding his gaze as his chest heaves with every labored breath.

You slip off his oversized shirt, letting it fall away to reveal your skin. The moment your chest is bare, Rhysand's eyes darken, fixating on you with a hunger that makes your blood heat. You smirk, reaching down to weave your fingers into his hair, guiding his face toward you. He doesn't hesitate, his mouth finding your nipple with an urgent, wet heat that drags a hum of pure satisfaction from your throat.

Rhysand whines against your skin, the sound vibrating through his chest as he loses himself in the sensation of you. You giggle, your voice a light, teasing contrast to the heavy atmosphere. "You could just come from touching me, huh, baby?"

He only nods, his mouth refusing to leave your skin as he continues to worship your breast. You give his hair a firm, guiding tug, forcing him up just enough so you can capture his lips in a searing kiss. He moans into your mouth, his hands coming up to cup and knead your breasts, his touch reverent and desperate. You lean back, arching your spine as you look down at him, purring, "Why are you so obsessed with my boobs, sweet boy?"

Rhysand lets out a frustrated, needy whine at your teasing, his forehead furrowing as he meets your gaze. "They just feel so good, honey," he whispers, his voice thick with raw emotion. "I just love you so much."

Your heart swells, the softness of the moment grounding you even as the desire between you reaches a fever pitch. You smile, reaching out to push his shoulders firmly until he is lying flat against the mattress again. His eyebrows furrow in confusion as you shift, moving your thighs until you are straddling his face. But the moment his nose catches the scent of you—the evidence of how much you want him—the confusion vanishes. He surges upward, his mouth opening to taste you, his tongue flicking out with a hungry precision.

You move quickly, pinning his wrists to the mattress on either side of his head. This gives you absolute control, dictating the pace and the depth of his indulgence. You give him exactly what he is begging for, pushing your hips down to invite his tongue deeper. He nips and licks at you, his devotion absolute, and as you ride his face, your own moans fill the room, a rhythmic, desperate symphony of two mates finally finding their way back to one another.

You reach up, cupping and teasing your own breasts as you look down at him. Rhysand's eyes lock onto you, his pupils blown wide, and the deep, guttural moan he releases vibrates through his chest and into your own body, fueling you. You grind harder, matching the frantic rhythm of his tongue, and the intensity builds until your legs begin to shake, your knees buckling slightly as you finally shatter, coming hard against his tongue. He keeps his eyes tightly closed, drinking you in, completely and utterly obsessed with your taste, savoring every drop as he makes sure you are spent.

You moan at the sheer, overwhelming overstimulation, your breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. As your pulse begins to slow, you shift, moving down to straddle his hips once more.

Rhysand lies back against the pillows, his chest heaving, his face flushed and vulnerable. You reach down, guiding him, and finally sheath him inside you. The moment you are connected, he gasps, his eyes fluttering shut as he lets out a broken, bliss-filled moan, his body visibly relaxing into the heat and the friction of your warmth. You smile down at him, your hands tracing the line of his stomach and the hard muscle of his chest, and you begin to move, setting a slow, deliberate pace as you start to bounce on him, savoring the feeling of him entirely yours, and you his.

As you continue to ride him, the friction is exquisite, and Rhysand can no longer contain the depth of his need. He begins to whine and whimper, his voice thick and broken as he murmurs, "I've missed you so much... I promise, I'm going to be a better mate for you, I swear it."

You coo at him, a soft, indulgent sound, and lean down to capture his lips in a lingering kiss. "You're already such a good mate for me," you whisper against his skin. "I love you so much."

"Gods, I love you," he breathes back, his hands clenching at your hips as you quicken your pace. He gasps, his head lolling back against the mattress. "I won't... I won't last much longer."

You nod, a wicked, knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Beg for it, baby. Tell me you want to come."

Rhysand's eyes are blown wide, his focus entirely on you. "Please," he pleads, the word desperate. "Please, I need it. Let me come, let me come with you."

You cup his cheek, your thumb tracing his jaw as you press deeper, squeezing him inside you. His eyes roll back into his head, a guttural groan escaping him. "You sound so pretty when you beg for me," you whisper.

"Just for you," he gasps, trembling under your touch. "I'm yours. I belong to you."

"Yeah?" you hum, slowing your movements just enough to savor his reaction. "You belong to me?"

"Always have," he swears, his voice cracking.

You smile, leaning down to press your forehead against his. "And I have always belonged to you, my sweet boy."

He whimpers at the name, and you lean into his ear, your voice a silken command. "Come with me."

Rhysand erupts, a loud, ragged moan tearing from his throat as he finally finds his release. But you don't stop; you keep riding him, the rhythm relentless. He whimpers loudly, his body twitching as he begs, "Please, stop—I'll come again, I can't—"

You ignore his pleas, reaching down to rub your thumb against his lip. He opens his mouth, his tongue darting out instinctively, and you let a drop of your own moisture fall into his mouth. "My dirty mate," you murmur. "You're so fucking dirty."

He nods, a dazed, blissed-out smile on his face. You reach your own second peak, and as you do, he follows you right over the edge again, his body arching and a final, thunderous moan filling the room. He collapses beneath you, his breathing ragged and heavy, and you finally stop moving, settling your weight atop him as the silence returns, thick with the aftermath of your connection.

You try to shift your weight to move off him, but his arms immediately tighten around you, pulling you back down against his chest. He shakes his head, his voice a low, vulnerable murmur. "Just stay right here. I need to still feel you."

You pause, letting your body soften against his. He tucks his chin over your shoulder, breathing you in. "Just stay with me like this," he adds, his tone heavy with a rare, honest need. "You always calm me, and I need this."

A warm, tender smile touches your lips. You reach up, brushing your fingers soothingly through his hair, and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. With gentle movements, he guides you both so you are lying back against the pillows, your bodies still pressed together.

"Sleep, my pretty mate," you whisper into the quiet room.

Rhysand's cheeks flush, a rare, boyish tint of pink appearing on his skin. He looks away for a second, then breathes out, "Thank you."

You kiss his cheek, holding his gaze with gentle confusion. "What for?"

He shrugs, the movement small and self-conscious. "For staying... for being patient with me."

Your heart aches with a fierce, protective love. You smile, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. "Sleep," you whisper firmly but lovingly.

He nods, finally letting his guard collapse completely. As he settles into the crook of your arm, his breathing evens out into a deep, steady rhythm. For the first time in decades, the shadows in his mind recede, and he drifts into a truly peaceful, uninterrupted sleep in your arms.

[hockeylover25]

Could you do a story about being Rhysands baby sister that there was actually 3 of them and since your mother and older sister were killed you were just a baby at the time so no one really knew you existed so Rhysands Cassian and Azriel (and the rest of the IC) raised you and it’s not until hundreds of years later that her and Azriels mating bond comes into play?

Finally finished editing this! And you can find the story here!

I changed it a little to make it her being fourteen during the attack rather than a baby… so I hope that’s okay!

As always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻

[hockeylover25]

The Silent Tether*

Azriel x Rhysand!Sister

Summary: when Azriel finally returns home from a mission that lasted three weeks instead of one, you confront him with your worries and fear. But doing so, you open up a new part of your soul to him.

Warnings: talks of murder, talks of abandonment, smut, p in v, unprotected sex, shadow kink, just fluff and angst…

Authors note: this request came in my box I wanna say a month ago, and I have been working on it since then wanting to get it the exact way I wanted for you guys. I hope you guys enjoy this story as much as I do. This is just a small love story for the pain about to happen in the arrangement story… BUT, as always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻. Find request, here.

Main Masterlist:

༄⋆⭒˚｡⋆🌌⋆｡˚⭒⋆༄

The memory doesn't feel like a story someone else tells. It feels like a wound that never quite knitted shut, a jagged piece of glass you still carry tucked against your ribs.

You can still smell that night, the metallic tang of blood cutting through the crisp, biting scent of pine and fresh snow. You were only fourteen, practically still a small fae baby, who thought she knew the shape of her own life. Then came the ambush. It was surgical, quiet, and over with a terrifying, hollow finality. One moment your mother and sister were there, the next, there was only the suffocating silence of the forest and a grief so sharp it felt like it might actually carve you open.

But the real, quiet destruction happened afterward, inside the walls of your own home. Your father, the High Lord, didn't reach for you. He didn't pull you into his arms to share the crushing weight of what you'd lost. Instead, he looked at you and recoiled. Every time he caught sight of you, his face would drain of color, his jaw tightening until the bone nearly snapped.

You were young, you were terrified, and you were starving for his comfort, but you realized, slowly and painfully, that he wasn't looking at his daughter. He was looking at a ghost. You had your mother's eyes, her jaw, the way she tilted her head when she laughed. You were a mirror he couldn't bear to look into, a living, breathing reminder of the mate he'd failed to keep safe. He didn't just mourn them, he began to treat you like an unwanted memory, disowning you in all the ways that didn't require words.

It wasn't until the very end, the night he and Rhysand left to hunt down those responsible for the massacre, that the truth finally spilled out. You stood in the foyer, your heart hammering against your ribs, and for one brief, agonizing second, he looked at you. There was no softness in his eyes, only a jagged, raw pain.

"I cannot look at you," he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. "You look exactly like her."

That was the last thing he ever said to you. He walked out into the dark, and he never came back.

You were left in the wreckage of a house that no longer felt like a home, but you were not left to rot. The Night Court claimed you, and in the process, three men essentially became the architects of who you are today.

Cassian took that raw, jagged grief and shoved a blade into your hand. He didn't have the patience for your weeping, and thank the Cauldron for that. He taught you that the world didn't care about your broken heart, it only cared about whether you could stand back up. He spent years bruising you, pushing you to the brink, ensuring that if someone ever came for you the way they came for them, you wouldn't just be a victim. You'd be the one they should have feared.

Then there was Azriel. If Cassian was the fire, Az was the cool, quiet shadow. He never asked you to be anything other than what you were. He was the one who sat with you on the nights when the silence was too loud, his hand a steady weight on your shoulder. He was your person, the one who learned the language of your stillness and knew exactly when you were about to shatter. He didn't need to be loud, his presence was the anchor that kept you from drifting away entirely.

And Rhys... your brother. He understood the darkness better than anyone. He took the volatile, terrifying power of your Daemati gifts and taught you how to harness the storm. It was a delicate, intimate process, sharing minds, building walls, learning where your thoughts ended and the world began. He didn't just teach you to use your power. He taught you to own it, to keep it as a shield so that you would never again be caught defenseless.

They took a young fae who had been hollowed out by her own father's hate and they forged you into iron. They didn't just raise you; they breathed life back into you, one lesson, one touch, and one hard-won victory at a time.

You are a product of their love, and even on the days when the ghost of that fourteen-year-old fae tries to take over, you look at the scars on your palms or feel the familiar hum of your power, and you remember, you are not a mirror for anyone else's pain anymore. You are your own.

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Centuries have passed since the blood stained the snow, and the girl who once trembled in the foyer of a cold, empty house is long gone. You are the Princess of the Night Court, a woman carved from starlight and shadow, forged in the fires of the Illyrian mountains and the deepest secrets of Velaris. You are not a victim, you are a force.

But even princesses have vulnerabilities, and yours has been sitting in the quiet, empty spaces of the training ring for weeks.

Azriel has been gone too long.

The shadows he commands have left Velaris strangely muted, but it is the silence in your own mind that is truly agonizing. You have been pushing your Daemati abilities to the absolute brink, stretching your awareness across borders and through the veil, trying to snag a thread of his consciousness, a flicker of his presence. Each time you reach, you find nothing but a hollow echo. Your mind is frayed, your nerves are raw, and your brother, Rhysand, has been pacing your chambers for days, his own worry bleeding into your link, demanding, hounding, you to try again, to find him, to bring him home.

"You're going to burn yourself out," a rough voice interrupts your frantic pacing.

Cassian stands in the doorway of the ring, his wings tucked tight against his back, his eyes searching yours with that annoying, persistent brand of concern. He knows you need to bleed off the tension before you snap, and he knows exactly how to make it happen. He offers you the ring, a silent invitation to take your frustration out on his ribs.

You don't hesitate. You launch yourself at him with a ferocity that would have terrified you centuries ago. You drive him back, your strikes precise and lethal, a symphony of violence that serves as the only language you can speak right now. You beat him until your knuckles are white and your breath is coming in ragged gasps, and he takes every hit, dodging just enough to keep you coming.

But then, the banter starts. It's his way of trying to keep you tethered to the living, to pull you out of the spiral of your own terror.

"You know," he grunts, parrying a blow that would have shattered a lesser man's jaw, "if you spent half as much energy actually relaxing as you do obsessing over our Spymaster, you'd probably have found him by now. It's not just the mission, is it? You're terrified he's never coming back to you."

He wears that infuriating, lopsided smirk, he one that usually makes you want to drive a blade through his boot.

"Shut up, Cass," you hiss, your voice sharp enough to draw blood.

"Or what? You'll tell him?" He chuckles, ducking under a sweeping kick. "You've been pining for him since the dawn of time, and honestly, it's getting exhausting watching you stare at the horizon like a lovesick acolyte."

The heat in your chest flares, white-hot and blinding. You don't need his analysis, and you certainly don't need his pity. Without warning, you drop your physical guard and reach into his mind, sharpening your focus into a single, jagged needle of psychic energy.

You drive it straight into his mental soft spot, a pointed, intrusive jab that makes his breath hitch. Cassian lets out a strangled groan, stumbling back and clutching his temples as the psychic feedback ripples through him.

You don't wait for him to recover. You turn on your heel, your chin held high, your composure iron-clad despite the frantic, aching worry still humming in your veins. Behind you, you hear him recover just enough to flip you the bird, his dark laughter echoing off the stone walls of the ring.

You don't look back. You just walk away, the princess of a court that feels entirely too quiet, carrying the weight of a man who hasn't come home yet, and a heart that is far too exposed for your own good.

The stone corridor feels unnervingly long tonight. Your boots click rhythmically against the floor, but the sound barely registers over the static-like hum of your own frayed nerves. You are halfway to your bedroom, determined to finally surrender to the exhaustion that has been hounding you since you left the training ring, when you stop dead.

It starts in the center of your chest, a phantom tug, like an invisible hook buried deep in your sternum. It's a rhythmic, insistent pulse, a magnetic pull dragging your focus away from the comfort of your bed and toward the heavy, oak-paneled door of your office.

You stand there, your hand coming up to press against your chest, kneading at the dull, aching pressure beneath your ribs. It's been three years of this, three years of that same, maddening tug. At first, you thought it was a lingering side effect of a training injury, or perhaps some residual trauma from your early years, but the consistency of it is terrifying.

Every time you've dared to mention it to Rhys, the reaction has been... telling.

You remember the first time you brought it up. You had been sitting in his study, and the pull had been so strong it actually made you gasp. You had looked at him, confused, and asked, "Rhys, do you ever feel like... like something is calling you? A pull, right here?"

His reaction hadn't been a dismissal. It had been a revelation. His eyes had gone wide, that flicker of raw, panicked realization crossing his face before he slammed his mental shields down so hard it felt like a door being bolted in your face. He had immediately changed the subject, launching into a lecture about court logistics or trade routes with a forced, manic intensity that told you more than his words ever could.

He knows. He knows exactly what this is. And he is terrified of it.

You stand in the hallway now, caught in the gravity of that pull. The office door seems to loom, almost as if it's breathing. Your heart hammers against the palm pressing over your chest. Every instinct screams at you to go to your bedroom, to lock the door, and to hide under the covers until the world stops spinning. But the tug is relentless, a physical command that bypasses your brain and pulls at the very marrow of your bones.

You take a shaky breath, your fingers tightening into a fist against your tunic. If you turn and walk toward your room, you can pretend this is just fatigue.

But, this pull was so tight on your soul that you turned to the right and opened the door to your office.

The air in the office is different the moment you cross the threshold, it was charged, heavy, and smelling of ozone and Illyrian pine. The door clicks shut behind you, the latch turning with a finality that seems to seal you off from the rest of the world. Before you can even adjust to the dim light, the shadows in the room behave like living things. They uncoil from the corners, slithering across the floor to dance around your boots, before rising to press soft, cool caresses against your cheeks, a welcome home from the only part of him that has been present while he was gone.

Then, he turns.

Azriel stands in the center of the room, his shoulders broad, his wings folded tight, and that familiar, brooding stillness radiating from him like a physical weight. The exhaustion that has been hounding you for weeks vanishes, replaced by a surge of adrenaline so potent it makes your vision swim.

He sees you, and that rare, small smile, the one he saves exclusively for the quiet moments between the two of you, flickers across his face.

You don't think. You don't ask why he's here instead of reporting to the war room, and you don't think about the protocol you've been conditioned to follow. You launch yourself across the room. The distance closes in a heartbeat, and his arms are already open, catching you with the strength and precision of a predator.

He lifts you effortlessly, his hands gripping your waist as you scramble, wrapping your legs around him to pull him closer. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him, the ink, the cold night air, and that underlying, sharp metallic tang of his shadows.

"I was so worried, Az," you whisper, the words breaking against his skin. Your voice is thick, raw with the weeks of silence you've endured. You press your forehead against his, your hands tangling into the dark silk of his hair, needing to feel the solid, beating reality of him. "I looked everywhere. My mind... I couldn't find you. I thought—"

You can't even finish the thought, not when he is here, holding you so tightly you can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart against your own ribs. It is the only thing that matters, the only thing that silences the frantic, pulling ache that has haunted your chest for three years.

He lets out a low, ragged sound, it was a mix between a sigh and a growl, and pulls you even closer, his wings shifting to envelop you both in a shroud of impenetrable, velvet darkness.

He nudges his nose against yours, a small, grounding gesture that feels more intimate than any battle-scarred hug ever could. He doesn't pull away completely; instead, he slowly sets you down, but his hands linger at your waist, and his massive, leathery wings shift to form a private, velvet-dark cocoon around you both.

It feels like you've stepped into a sanctuary where the rest of the world doesn't exist. His shadows are practically buzzing with a manic, joyous energy, swirling around your ankles and darting up to brush against your cheeks like excited pets finally reunited with their favorite person. They aren't just his shadows, they're your shadows too at this point, and their frantic, happy dancing tells you everything you needed to know: they weren't just searching for him; they were trying to bring him back to you.

He begins to sway, a slow, hypnotic movement that pulls you with him. He hums, a low, vibration in his chest that you feel through your own ribs, and it's so grounding, so overwhelmingly him, that your head spins with the relief of it.

But the confusion hasn't left you. The weeks of silence, the way Rhysand avoided your questions and how you pushed your brain to the point of exhaustion, it's all still there, nagging at the back of your mind.

You draw back just enough to look up at him, your eyebrows furrowed in sharp contrast to the soft rhythm of his swaying. You search his eyes, those dark, unreadable pools that usually hide everything, but tonight, they seem to hold a flicker of something raw and exposed.

"Where were you?" you whisper, your voice thick with the frustration of the last few weeks. "Why did it take you this long, Az? I searched... I pushed until my mind felt like it was catching fire, and there was nothing. Not even a whisper of you."

You tighten your grip on his shoulders, needing him to be honest, needing him to bridge the gap between his long absence and the magnetic pull you've felt for years.

"I couldn't find you," you press again, your gaze searching his face for a hint of the truth. "It felt like you were behind a wall I couldn't climb. What happened out there?"

Azriel lets out a long, ragged sigh that ruffles your hair. His voice is a low, rough vibration against your forehead as he whispers, "I got caught up."

The simplicity of it feels like a slap. You let out a soft, jagged breath, your gaze dropping to the intricate pattern of the leather straps on his chest, unable to meet the intensity of his stare. "Where?" you press, your voice barely audible.

His finger hooks under your chin, firm but impossibly gentle, forcing you to look at him. His dark eyes search your face, scanning every detail, and you catch the flicker—a fraction of a second where his gaze drops to your lips, heavy and hungry, before he pulls his focus back to your eyes.

"Does it matter?" he asks.

The weight of the question is crushing. Your hands, which had been anchored to his shoulders, slide down, your fingers curling into your palms as you try to put distance between you. But the cage of his wings is absolute. They are warm, solid, and immovable, pressing you against him until there is no space left for your doubt.

When your body brushes against the sensitive inner lining of his wings, he lets out a sharp, shaky breath, his grip on you tightening. You look up at him, your eyes burning with the sting of unshed tears.

"'Does it matter?'" you repeat, your voice cracking. "Of course it matters, Az! I was worried sick. You were gone for three weeks when it was supposed to be a week, maybe a week and a half at most. We couldn't find you. My mind... I couldn't reach you. I thought you were..."

The word dead hangs in the air, too heavy to speak aloud. You look down again, the memory of those dark, silent nights of searching making your chest ache with that familiar, mysterious pull.

Azriel pulls you closer, the movement fluid and desperate, his wings drawing tight, cocooning you in his scent and his heat. "I'll always come home to you," he whispers, the vow fierce and raw.

You shake your head, a hollow laugh escaping you. Your fingers move of their own accord, trembling as they trace the cold, familiar texture of the leather over his stomach, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart beneath it.

"You can't promise me that," you whisper, the honesty of your fear finally spilling over. "Not when you're you, and not when the world is the way it is. You can't promise that to me."

Azriel just nods, his expression unyielding, his jaw set with a stubborn, ancient resolve. "I will always come home to you," he repeats, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper that vibrates through your very bones. "I can promise you that."

You look up at him, the tears you've been holding back for three weeks finally spilling over. Your breath comes in ragged, broken hitches. "I don't know what I would've done... if we never found you. I just... I can't even think about it."

You cover your face with your hands, the shame of your vulnerability warring with the sheer, overwhelming relief of his presence. Azriel makes a soft, guttural sound—a coo of pure, unadulterated tenderness.

"Sweetheart," he murmurs, his hands gently prying yours away from your face. "Let me see that pretty face."

He moves your hands with infinite care, his thumbs brushing the salt tracks from your cheeks. He doesn't stop there, he lifts your palms to his lips, kissing the sensitive skin of your wrists, then the center of your palms, grounding you with every touch. He takes your hand, pressing it firmly against his chest, right over his racing heart.

"I promise you," he whispers, his eyes searching yours with a terrifying level of honesty. "With my heart... and my soul. I will come home to you. I don't care if it means losing myself, my body, my wings. I will crawl through the fires of the Cauldron if I have to, just to make it home to you. Because you are my home."

As the last word leaves his lips, a strange, electric heat flares at your wrists. You gasp, your eyes widening in shock as you look down. Around Azriel's wrist, a shimmering, intricate mark has etched itself into his skin—a band of dark, swirling starlight and shadow that pulses in rhythm with your own heartbeat.

"Az..." you whisper, your voice trembling. You look at him, stunned, then slowly rotate your own wrist. There, mirroring his perfectly, the same mark has manifested, glowing faintly against your skin.

He doesn't look surprised. He doesn't pull away. He just watches you with a serene, terrifying calm, his hand still cradling your waist, his other hand brushing a stray lock of hair back from your forehead with a feather-light touch.

"My wrist," you whisper, the realization dawning on you with the force of a tidal wave. You turn your arm, staring at the mark that binds you. "Azriel, what have you done?"

He doesn't flinch. He just nods slowly, pulling you even tighter against his hard, solid frame. "I know what it is," he says, his voice steady, anchored by a choice he clearly made a long time ago. "And I don't regret it."

You look up at him, your breath hitching. "Our souls are tied now... with this... you tied our souls together."

Azriel nods again, a faint, sad, but utterly devoted smile touching his lips. "I know, sweetheart," he says softly.

Then, the sharp sudden tug in your chest isn't painful this time. It's like the final snap of a heavy iron chain you hadn't even realized you were wearing.

A gasp leaves your throat as that familiar, agonizing pressure, the one that has dogged your every step, kept you awake at night, and haunted your thoughts for three long, grueling years, simply evaporates. The emptiness it leaves behind isn't a void, it's an open space, flooded with a sudden, overwhelming sense of clarity and absolute, unshakable peace.

It's as if you were holding your breath for a thousand days, and finally, you are allowed to exhale.

You look up, your eyes wide and searching, and find Azriel looking down at you. His expression is no longer the guarded, weary mask of the Spymaster. His smile is soft, genuine, and so profoundly relieved that it makes your knees weak. He's looking at you like he's finally seeing you through a clear lens, without the static and the distance that had kept him tethered away from you for so long.

He doesn't need to ask. He can feel the shift in you as clearly as he feels the bond pulsing against his own skin.

"You feel it too," he whispers, the statement vibrating against your forehead as he tucks you closer, his wings folding around you until you are entirely shut away from the rest of the world.

The air in the office feels different now—still and expectant. The frantic, happy dance of the shadows has slowed into a protective, undulating hum, vibrating in sync with the marks on your wrists. The mystery of the pull, the secret your brother was too terrified to name, the fear of the last three weeks—it all feels like a lifetime ago.

You aren't just the Princess of the Night Court, and he isn't just the Spymaster. In this closed-off, silent room, you are simply two halves of a whole finally standing in the same place.

"It's gone," you whisper, the realization echoing in the quiet office. "The ache. It's... it's actually gone."

Azriel brushes his thumb over your cheek, his touch lingering, possessive and reverent. "It was never meant to be an ache," he murmurs, his voice a low, dark promise. "It was just the distance between us, waiting to be closed. And now that it is... I'm never letting you be that far from me again."

The realization hits you not as a shock, but as the final, missing piece of a puzzle you've been trying to solve your entire life.

Mate.

Everything, the years of him being your steady anchor, the way his presence alone could silence your worst nightmares, the magnetic tether that had been pulling at your very marrow—it all snaps into place. He isn't just your person; he is your soul's counterpart.

Without a second thought, you grab the lapels of his tunic and pull him down, closing the remaining space between you. The kiss is frantic, born of three years of repressed longing and the sheer terror of almost losing him. Your lips meet his, and it's like coming home to a fire you didn't know you were freezing beside.

But as quickly as you started, you break away, your heart hammering, eyes wide. "Az—sorry, I—"

The apology dies in your throat. Azriel lets out a low, dangerous growl that vibrates through the entire room, his shadows swirling into a frenzied, dark mist around you. He doesn't let you retreat; he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants, yanking you flush against him.

"Don't," he rasps, his voice rough and stripped of every bit of his usual, composed restraint.

He crashes his mouth back onto yours, his kiss hungry and aggressive, stripped of all caution. You feel your knees go weak, your body folding into his intensity, and before you can even register the movement, his hands are on your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. He deposits you onto the mahogany surface of your desk, scattering maps and inkwells to the floor with a clatter that neither of you cares about.

His hands are everywhere, they were urgent, possessive, and shaking with a need he's been holding back for centuries. When his fingers find the hem of your shirt, he doesn't fumble; he rips it away, the fabric tearing as he tosses it aside.

The cool air hits your skin for only a second before his mouth is there, tracing a burning path down your throat to your collarbone. You let out a broken, sharp moan that echoes off the office walls, your fingers tangling into his hair, pulling him closer.

He groans against your skin, a sound of pure, unadulterated want, and you can't help the bubble of breathless, bewildered laughter that escapes you. Watching the untouchable Spymaster, the man of infinite control, completely unravel the moment he touches you—it's intoxicating.

"You're a mess, Az," you giggle, your breath hitching as his hands trace the line of your waist, his shadows dancing over your skin like dark silk.

He pauses, looking up at you from where he's pressed against the desk, his eyes dilated until the irises are nearly gone, his face a mask of primal desire. "You have no idea," he growls, his voice a promise of what is to come.

The office door swings open with a sharp, insistent creak, cutting through the haze of the moment. Azriel is currently buried against the curve of your neck and chest, his lips tracing the sensitive skin right above your bodice, when the sudden intrusion hits.

He doesn't even let you look. In a blur of motion, his wings snap outward like a shroud, expanding to cover you entirely from the view of the door. He turns his head, his face twisting into a feral, guttural snarl that would make a warrior tremble.

"Get out," he growls, the sound is dark, possessive, and dangerous.

You hear a heavy silence, followed by two sets of footsteps stopping dead. When you peek over your shoulder, you see Rhysand and Cassian standing in the doorway. Their eyes are wide, Rhysand's, in particular, hold a mixture of shock and that terrifying, High Lordly recognition, while Cassian is mid-snicker, his lean against the doorframe already forming a joke.

Rhysand's expression shifts instantly. He takes one look at the way Azriel's wings are shielding you, the way the air in the room is vibrating with the raw, unmistakable static of a newly snapped mating bond, and his face goes unreadable.

"We'll talk later," Rhysand says, his voice flat, cutting off whatever Cassian was about to say.

"Wait, I just—" Cassian starts, still grinning.

Rhysand doesn't let him finish. He grabs Cassian by the back of his leathers and hauls him out of the room, slamming the door shut with a flick of his fingers.

Azriel doesn't stop. As soon as the lock clicks, he turns back to you, his breathing slowly steadying, though his hands, that are large, calloused, and trembling, continue to map every inch of your skin. He presses his forehead against yours, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper. "I have been waiting for so long for you to see."

Your heart skips a beat. You pull back slightly, blinking at him, your eyes wide. "How long?"

Azriel looks down, his dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. A rare, vulnerable flush creeps up his neck. "Over twenty years."

You gasp, the breath leaving you all at once. "Twenty... twenty years?"

He pecks your lips, his expression softening into something so tender it almost hurts. "I knew the bond was there, but I wanted it to hit you as well. I didn't want to force you, or make you feel trapped by some celestial whim. I wanted you to choose me on your own, without the pull making the decision for you."

A slow, shy smile spreads across your face, and you reach up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "You idiot," you whisper, laughing softly. "I've had a small crush on you for a little over twenty years myself."

Azriel lets out a genuine, low laugh that rumbles through his chest, his eyes darkening with amusement. "Yeah? Think I'm pretty, sweetheart?"

You nod, your eyes searching his, filled with a decades-worth of unspoken longing. "The prettiest," you tease.

The playfulness vanishes instantly. He growls, a sound of pure, unadulterated hunger, and crashes his mouth against yours, kissing you with a desperate intensity that makes your head spin. You reach for the buckles of his leathers, tugging frantically at the straps, whining against his lips for him to get rid of them, to be closer, to finally, finally be yours.

"Take it off," you breathe against his lips, the words a desperate, breathless command.

Azriel lets out a low, dark chuckle that vibrates right through your chest. "My greedy mate," he whispers, the possessiveness in his tone making your pulse skyrocket.

You shudder, a visible tremor racking your body, but you meet his gaze, nodding with a shy, defiant heat that makes his smirk widen. He doesn't waste another second. A wall of living shadow erupts around you, thick and velvet-black, swallowing the room, the desk, and the world outside. When the darkness shifts and thins, the scenery has changed entirely. You are no longer on the hard wood of your desk; you are sinking into the soft, familiar linens of his bed.

Your clothes are gone, he's stripped them away with a speed and precision that speaks to years of suppressed want. Before you can even catch your breath, he's between your thighs, his presence solid and grounding.

He doesn't hesitate. As his mouth finds you, his shadows, the dark, silken tendrils that have been with you your entire life, begin to writhe and coil. They brush against your sensitized skin, teasing your nipples with a cold, electrifying precision that makes your back arch off the mattress.

"Az—" you gasp, the name tearing from your throat as he begins to work on you.

The sensation is overwhelming, the heat of his mouth, the impossible softness of the shadows dancing over your sensitive points, and the sheer, focused worship in his movements. You moan in genuine surprise, your head falling back against the pillows as your fingers tangle into his dark hair, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him as the world dissolves into nothing but the friction of his tongue and the dark, intoxicating magic of his shadows.

Azriel's voice is a low, guttural vibration against your most sensitive skin, muffled by the heat of his mouth. "Taste so good," he groans, his tongue swirling with a deliberate, maddening expertise. "Better than I ever imagined... and I've imagined it every night for twenty years."

The raw confession sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. You let out a broken, needy moan, your hips bucking instinctively. "Az... please," you gasp, your voice trembling as he slips a long, calloused finger deep inside you, stretching you, claiming you.

He rises up then, his eyes burning with a dark, predatory hunger. He captures your lips in a bruising, possessive kiss, his mouth tasting of you. He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips, his voice dropping to a gravelly, indecent register. "You don't want to know the number of nights I've had to wrap my hand around my cock, biting my tongue so I didn't scream your name into the dark, just thinking about how you'd taste."

You smirk, despite the dizzying haze of pleasure, and arch your back, presenting yourself to him with a bold, wicked grace.

"Good girl," he growls, his voice thick with approval.

He slips a second finger inside, the invasion slow and agonizingly perfect. As your breath hitches, his shadows suddenly surge upward. Before you can react, they coil like thick, velvet rope around your wrists, binding your hands firmly to the headboard above your head.

You whine, a sound of frustrated, delicious helplessness, pulling against the cool, dark restraint. "Azriel, you can't just—"

"I can," he cuts you off, his voice a dark, velvety promise. He drops his head, his mouth latching onto one of your nipples, his tongue swirling around the peak while he sucks with a rhythm that matches the sliding of his fingers inside you.

"Look at you," he murmurs, pulling away for a second to watch his fingers slide in and out of your slick, hot heat. He watches your eyes roll back, your skin flushing a deep, aroused crimson. "Look how wet you are for me. Bound to me. Entirely mine."

"Yours," you pant, your chest heaving as his shadows tease your sensitized skin, wandering down your stomach and back up to trace the line of your throat. "Always yours, Az. Just... make me finish. Please."

He chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound, and begins to thrust with a measured, lethal precision that threatens to snap your composure in two. "Not yet, sweetheart," he hums against your ear, his breath hot. "We have twenty years of hunger to settle. I'm going to make you beg for every single second."

The tension in the room is a physical weight, thick with the scent of arousal and the hum of your connection. As his fingers work inside you with expert, rhythmic precision, you feel the tide rising, an uncontrollable swell of pressure blooming deep in your belly.

"Az—I'm—I'm close," you gasp, your head thrashing against the pillow.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs, his lips tracing the sensitive column of your throat, his voice dripping with pride. "Show me. Give it to me."

He picks up the pace, his fingers driving into you, and when you finally shatter, your body arching and locking into a high-pitched, breathless cry, he doesn't stop. He keeps the pressure there, relishing the way you shudder, the way your muscles clench around him. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle at the sight of your unraveling.

He waits until your shudders subside before his shadows loosen, the one binding your right hand snapping back like a whip. He catches your wrist, guiding your trembling fingers down.

"Touch me," he rasps, his eyes dilated, pupils blown wide as he watches you. "Touch my cock, baby. Feel how hard I am for you."

Your fingers close around him, and he's hot, thick, and pulsing with a desperate need that matches your own. He lets out a ragged groan, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his breath hitching against your skin.

"I need you, Az," you whine, your voice strained and desperate, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, I can't take this ache anymore. I need you inside me, now—please, put it in."

"I'll give you what you want," he growls, his voice barely audible, vibrating with suppressed intensity. "I'll give you everything."

He moves up, his hands shifting to your hips, his palms scorching against your skin. He aligns himself with you, the tip of his cock pressing against your heat, and with a slow, agonizingly deliberate motion, he helps guide himself inside. You gasp, the sensation of him filling you so completely that it feels like you're being put back together.

He pauses, his breath hitching, his forehead pressed against yours. You both let out a synchronized, shuddering moan that dies in each other's mouths as he waits for the two of you to settle, his body adjusting to the tight, slick warmth of your interior.

"God," he rasps, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that feels like a claim. "You have no idea how long I've dreamt of this. Of being exactly where I belong."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, anchoring him. "Then stay," you whisper against his lips. "Don't you dare go anywhere."

He lets out a dark, hungry sound, shifting his weight. "I'm not going anywhere, my beautiful mate. We're just getting started."

The friction is intoxicating, a primal rhythm that seems to echo the very beating of your combined hearts. Azriel begins to move, his hips driving into you with a power that takes your breath away. Each thrust is deep, possessive, and agonizingly slow before he picks up the tempo, his movements becoming increasingly frantic and uncontained.

You arch your back, your entire body humming with the force of his rhythm. You watch as he leans up, his face flushed with the exertion and the sheer, raw pleasure of claiming you. His magnificent wings flare out wide, a massive arc of midnight velvet that fans across the room, his control completely shattered by the intensity of your pleasure.

With your other hand finally freed from the lingering shadows, you reach up, your fingers tangling into the dark silk of his hair. You pull him down, desperate to bridge the distance, your lips meeting his in a bruising, heated kiss.

"Please," you moan into his mouth, your voice thick and ragged. "Let me come. Just... just fuck me, Az."

He lets out a guttural, broken sound of surrender. He nods against your lips, his jaw tight as he fights to maintain the last shreds of his composure. "Come for me, sweetheart," he rasps, his voice trembling. "I won't be able to last long now."

You don't need to be told twice. As his pace quickens, driving into you with a relentless, driving hunger, you let yourself go. The climax hits you like a tidal wave—a white-hot explosion that ripples from your core, causing you to clench around him with every ounce of your strength.

The sensation of you shattering against him is the final catalyst. Azriel lets out a feral, guttural roar, his body locking rigid as he drives into you one last, deep time. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his entire frame shuddering as he spills his release inside you, his shadows swirling in a violent, ecstatic storm around the bed.

You both lie there, gasping for air, the world outside this room forgotten. He keeps his weight anchored on you, his breath heavy and wet against your skin, while the mating bond between you pulses, bright and absolute, in the quiet aftermath.

Azriel draws back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark with an adoration that is almost painful to witness. He presses a kiss to your lips, and it’s not the hungry, frantic kiss of a moment ago, but something soft, slow, and reverent. As he sighs into your mouth, you feel him harden again deep within you, a silent, stirring promise that he is far from finished.

He lifts your legs, draping them over his hips so you are completely open, completely his. He settles his weight, resting on his elbows beside your head, framing your face with his body as he begins to move again. This time, there is no rush. Every thrust is a slow, rhythmic slide, a deliberate act of worship.

"So beautiful," he murmurs against your temple, his breath hitching as he draws back and fills you again. "I have spent lifetimes just wanting to hold you like this. Just wanting to be this close."

You arch into him, your own hands finding his shoulders, tracing the heavy muscle there. "Az," you whimper, the name feeling like a prayer.

"I'm here," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his hips rocking in a steady, loving cadence. "I'm right here, and I'm never leaving. You are my home, my sun, my shadow. Everything I am, everything I've ever done, it was all just leading me to this moment. To you."

He drops his head to the crook of your neck, his lips grazing the pulse point there. "Do you have any idea how much you're loved?" he asks, his voice vibrating against your skin. "I love you. I have loved you since the moment I saw you, and I will love you until the mountains crumble into the sea."

The intimacy is almost too much; it feels as if he is peeling back the layers of your soul and smoothing over the scars of your past. The friction builds, not with the fire of the previous release, but with a deep, consuming warmth that starts at your toes and radiates outward.

"I love you too," you breathe, your voice shattering in the quiet room. "I've loved you for so long."

He lifts his head, his gaze locking onto yours, intense and unyielding. The rhythm of his hips finds that perfect, agonizing sweet spot, and you feel the crest of another climax beginning to rise.

"Together," he whispers, his voice breaking. "Let's do this together."

As the pleasure takes you, pulling you both into that shimmering, silent void where nothing else exists, he thrusts deeper, harder, his shadows surging to wrap around you both in a final, protective cocoon.

"Gods," he groans, his voice trembling as he spills himself into you one more time. "I love you."

You press a lingering, weary smile against his lips and pull him down, burying your face in his neck. You lie there for a long time, the silence of the room no longer heavy, but filled with the steady, synchronized thump of your hearts. The shadows remain curled around you like a warm, protective blanket, keeping the rest of the world at bay.

Eventually, Azriel shifts. With a low, possessive hum, he scoops you up, keeping you flush against him. You let out a soft, startled whine as you realize he hasn't pulled away, but he's still buried deep inside you, and the movement makes your toes curl.

He chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates against your spine. "Still greedy, are we?" he murmurs, his voice playful as he navigates the short distance into the en-suite bathroom.

He maneuvers you toward the smooth marble vanity, bracing you against the cool stone and bending you forward. With a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he finally slips out, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. Before you can even turn, a firm, stinging slap lands on your backside, followed immediately by his lips pressing a searing, possessive kiss to the same spot.

"Wait here," he commands, his voice dropping into that dark, soothing register.

You lean against the counter, your legs feeling like jelly, watching as he moves with a grace that seems at odds with the lingering haze of your shared intimacy. He turns on the taps, the steam beginning to coil toward the ceiling as the water fills the large stone tub. He works with a quiet focus, and when the water is perfectly tempered, he turns back to you.

He doesn't say a word, he simply holds out a hand, his palm calloused and warm, his dark eyes fixed on yours with a silent, intense devotion. You take it, your fingers interlacing with his as he guides you into the water.

The warmth of the bath is an absolute balm, washing away the ache of the last few weeks. Azriel climbs in behind you, pulling you back against his chest until you are cocooned by his wings and his warmth. He picks up a sponge, his movements impossibly gentle as he begins to wash you, his hands lingering over your skin with a reverence that makes your breath hitch all over again.

"I have you," he whispers, his chin resting on your shoulder as he circles a patch of soap over your collarbone. "You don't have to carry anything tonight. Just breathe."

The sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes is soft and hazy, but it's the weight of the arm anchored across your waist and the warm, possessive pressure of Azriel's hand cupping your breast that anchors you to the world. You're still blissfully tangled in the linens, drifting in that half-asleep state where reality feels like a dream, and you instinctively shimmy backward, molding your spine against the solid, immovable heat of his chest.

The moment of peace is short-lived. The heavy oak door of the bedroom creaks open with agonizing slowness.

Before your eyes can even fully adjust to the light, you feel a shift in the air. Azriel's wing snaps out in a blur of velvet shadow, arching over your front to shield you from the doorway's view. A deep, frustrated sigh rumbles through his chest against your back, he doesn't even have to look to know who it is.

"So..." a familiar, amused voice drifts into the room. "She finally figured it out, huh?"

You freeze, your face flushing a deep, mortified crimson as Rhysand leans against the doorframe, wearing a look of pure, unadulterated smugness.

Azriel doesn't even bother to move his hand from where it's draped over you. He simply lifts his free hand and, with a bored, sharp flick of his middle finger, flips your High Lord off.

Rhysand erupts into a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head at the display. As he turns to leave, his eyes linger on the way Azriel is practically claiming you beneath that wing. "Should I make plans for your absence for a week?" he calls back over his shoulder.

Azriel's growl is primal, vibrating through the bed and right into your shoulder blades. "Make it a month, Rhysand."

Rhysand's laughter echoes in the hallway, dripping with teasing incredulity. "A whole month? You're an animal, Az."

You let out a tiny, whimpering sound of pure embarrassment, burying your face in your hands to hide from the world. You can practically feel the heat radiating off your own skin. Azriel, however, seems completely unbothered by the scrutiny. He pulls the wing tighter, effectively shutting out the rest of the world as the door clicks shut, leaving you in the dim, private sanctuary of his room.

He chuckles, a low, contented sound, and his lips find the sensitive curve of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "Let them talk," he murmurs, his hand squeezing gently, possessively. "They're just jealous because they know I'm not letting you out of this bed anytime soon."

[hockeylover25]

The Arrangement*

Part III

Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader

Summary: it is finally the night before the wedding and you learn interesting things you must do the night of your wedding to prove the union between you and Rhys.

Warnings: Baron…, arranged marriage, small thoughts of suicide, smut, p in v, that’s about it but please message me if you find anything for me to add🙏

Authors note: not my favorite chapter but please remember this is going to be a slow burn for this couple… the sex and everything will not anything but a duty to them until later🤭. But please as always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

Taglist: @thisfireheart, @florizota, @potatoplace, @shinyghosteclipse, @marrfil

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The air in the room is thick with the scent of lavender and the scratch of pins against fabric. You stand on a small pedestal in the center of Mor's office, feeling like a statue being chiseled into shape. For the past hour, you have been enduring the meticulous adjustments of the tailor, who is finalizing your mother's wedding dress.

It has been a quiet, restless eternity since you last saw Rhysand. The silence between you since that night with your brother has been heavy—a void where his witty banter and grounding presence used to be. You weren't sure if he was giving you space, or if the sheer weight of ruling the Night Court had swallowed him whole. You hadn't realized how much you would come to miss his company until he wasn't there to provide it.

Instead, you were saddled with Cassian.

His presence had been like a relentless storm. "Why that dress? Why not eat? Is that a dagger? Are you actually hiding a weapon in a ballgown? What book is that—is it one of those spicy ones again?" He was a whirlwind of interrogation, and frankly, you were ready to bury his head in the sand just to get a moment of silence.

Thankfully, Mor finally shooed him away, ushering you into her office for the final fitting.

The door to the main room creaks open as you step out, the weight of the silk and heirloom lace trailing behind you. You hear them before you see them—a sharp, collective intake of breath.

Mor and Luna are standing near the hearth, and when their eyes land on you, their expressions go soft. Mor's hand flies to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of nostalgia and genuine awe.

"Oh," Luna whispers, the word barely audible. "You look..."

You turn slowly toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror, bracing yourself for the sight of your mother's ghost. Instead, you find yourself staring at a stranger. The dress, which felt like a relic in the box, has been altered to fit your frame as if it were spun specifically for you. The bodice hugs your waist, the neckline perfectly framing your collarbones, and the material catches the light like captured starlight.

You raise your eyebrows, genuinely stunned. The reflection staring back at you looks regal, fierce, and undeniably breathtaking.

Mor steps forward, a warm, radiant smile transforming her face. She gently adjusts a fold of the skirt, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror.

"Breathtaking," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "You look absolutely breathtaking."

You look back at your reflection, smoothing a hand over the intricate embroidery, and let out a soft, surprised breath. "Wow," you finally manage to say, meeting Mor's gaze in the glass. "It... it looks perfect."

Mor claps her hands together, the sharp sound echoing slightly in the opulent room. "Well, that settles it. It fits perfectly—no further adjustments needed." She turns her bright, knowing gaze toward the tailor. "Thank you for coming, Luna."

Luna offers a respectful nod, bowing her head to Mor and then to you as she gathers her equipment and slips quietly out the door. The heavy oak door clicks shut, leaving you alone in the sudden silence of the office with Mor.

You shift slightly, the weight of the dress rustling against the floor. You've never really spent time alone with her, and the history between her and your brother casts a long, complicated shadow in your mind. You remember the whispers of that betrothal—the way it shattered—and the years your brother spent wallowing in the guilt of leaving her to face the border alone. You quickly shake those thoughts away, forcing your expression into something neutral.

Mor takes a few steps closer, her movements fluid and elegant. Her voice drops, losing its previous playful edge as she looks at you intently. "You'll be good to him, won't you?"

You freeze, your head tilting in genuine confusion. "Excuse me?"

She lets out a soft, weary sigh, crossing her arms. "My cousin. You'll be good to him?" She looks at you, her gaze searching. "I know how this works. I know this is an arrangement for the court, a matter of politics and optics. But you are going to be tied to him for a very long time. It would be... much easier if you found some common ground."

The weight of her words hits you. You think of the empty space Rhysand has left in his absence, the frustration, and the strange, spark-filled tension that always seems to hum whenever the two of you are in the same room.

You straighten your posture, meeting her eyes with a steady, fierce resolve. "I'll play nice as long as he plays nice," you say, your voice firm. "But you need to understand—I can't promise my loyalty to this court. My loyalty lies with my brother, first and foremost." You pause, softening your tone just a fraction as you add, "But whatever this court and he are planning? Whatever he needs in this partnership? I'm with you."

Mor stares at you, her expression unreadable for a heartbeat as she weighs your words. Slowly, a small, genuine smile touches her lips, acknowledging the honesty behind your stance. She nods, a silent mark of understanding, and turns toward the door.

"I'll give you a moment to get out of that dress," she says softly, walking out of the office and leaving you alone with your own reflection and the heavy reality of tomorrow.

The moment the door clicks shut behind Mor, you reach behind you, straining to find the hidden zipper. Your fingers brush against lace and silk, but you can't quite get a grip. You let out a frustrated, muffled groan, dropping your arms in defeat.

Then, a low, familiar chuckle vibrates from the doorway.

You spin around, startled, and find Rhysand leaning against the doorframe. His eyes are squeezed shut, his expression one of amused concentration. You roll your eyes, your heart doing a strange, frantic somersault in your chest.

"What are you doing?" you snap, though there's no real heat in it.

"Listening to you struggle," he hums, a playful lilt to his voice.

"How long have you been standing there?"

Rhysand gives a lazy shrug. "Long enough to hear you pacing, and long enough for Mor to give me the rundown of what you were doing. So, here I am."

You freeze, a sudden, inexplicable rush of warmth flooding your cheeks. You lower your voice to a whisper. "Did you see it? The dress?"

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes firmly closed. "You didn't want me to until tomorrow. Remember, darling?"

You nod, biting your lip. "Yes," you whisper, the word barely audible.

Rhysand steps forward, his presence suddenly filling the room, shifting the air around you. He holds out a steady hand. "Take my hand. Lead it to the back of the dress."

You hesitate for only a heartbeat before reaching out. You place your hand over his, guiding him to the zipper at the small of your back. As you turn away from him, you feel him hum in that low, dark register you've come to know so well. His eyes remain shut, but his touch is deliberate.

As he slowly drags the zipper down, his fingers brush against the warm skin of your spine. The contrast of his cool touch against your heated skin sends a shiver racing through you. He leans in, his breath hitching as he comes closer, his lips brushing near your ear.

"Gods," he whispers, his voice dropping into a ragged, hungry register. "I wish I could see you right now."

You close your eyes, leaning back instinctively against him, grounding yourself in his proximity. He presses a lingering, searing kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips trailing down to your shoulder. He whispers, "But I'll see you in this exact position tomorrow night."

You turn in his arms, his mouth ghosting over your shoulder one last time. You quickly cross your arms over your chest, clutching the slipping silk to keep the dress in place. You look up at him, your gaze searching his face—the face he is still keeping hidden from your view.

"Why do you believe that we will be in that position, Rhysand?" you ask, your voice breathless.

Rhysand sighs, a sound that is part amusement and part something deeper, more intense. He nods toward the dressing screen, his expression unreadable behind those closed lids. "Get dressed into something so I can see you," he says, his voice dropping to a low, velvet command. "And I'll explain."

You retreat into the bathroom, the cool air hitting your skin as you trade the heavy, suffocating silk for the comfort of your sweater and pants. When you step back out, Rhysand is sitting on the couch, his fingers pressed against his closed eyes, as if he's trying to stave off a headache.

You sink onto the cushion beside him. He drops his hands, and the intensity in his gaze—now wide open—is enough to make your pulse stutter.

"Are you going to explain?" you whisper.

He pauses, weighing his words with a gravity that makes your stomach churn. Instead of answering immediately, he pats his thigh, a silent invitation that you ignore, keeping your distance. "Do you remember the old tales? How the ancient High Lords and their wives had to prove their union?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. You nod, your voice barely a thread. "They had to... they had to perform the act in front of a select group of the court."

Rhysand nods slowly. You let out a shaky, jagged breath, your hands trembling in your lap. "Is that what we have to do? Is that what this requires?"

"Your father added it to the bargain," Rhysand says, his voice dangerously low. "Right before we shook hands. He insisted on public proof."

You stand up abruptly, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe. "I am not doing this," you say, your voice rising in panic. "I am not a mare to be paraded or a broodmare to be tested."

Rhysand stands, moving with that predatory grace of his, and catches your hand before you can storm away. He tugs you back, his grip firm but careful. "I told your father I would never do that," he says, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "We made a different deal."

You roll your eyes, though your vision is blurring with the tears of frustration and fear you've been holding back. "I am not bearing your children, Rhysand," you spat, your voice cracking. "My body—it wasn't built for Illyrian babies. I won't be shackled to you by a child."

Rhysand's expression softens instantly, his eyes filled with a flash of genuine hurt that you could even think that of him. He shakes his head, his voice dropping to a fierce, steady vow. "I would never force you into that. Never."

You glare at him, though your eyes are swimming with tears now, the betrayal and the stress of the impending wedding finally breaking your composure.

He reaches out, cupping your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the moisture gathering under your eyes. He leans in close, his voice a low, raspy secret. "Azriel will be standing outside our room that night. He will be the one to bear witness to your father—to tell him that we had..."

"That we had sex," you finish for him, a groan of pure, unadulterated annoyance slipping from your lips.

Rhysand nods, his expression serious. You push his hands away from your face, spinning away so he can't see the flush creeping up your neck.

"Fine," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly. "Whatever. If it gets him off my back, fine."

Rhysand's eyes remain closed, his head dipping forward in a rare display of genuine exhaustion. "I didn't know he was going to do that," he whispers, the words heavy with a frustration that feels almost as raw as your own.

You let out a sharp, jagged scoff, your fingers trembling as you aggressively swipe the remaining tears from your cheeks. "Why are you acting so surprised, Rhysand?" you challenge, your voice tight. "It's my father. He's been orchestrating my life like a game of chess since the day I was born—why would my wedding night be any different?"

Rhysand doesn't retort. He doesn't offer a smooth defense or a charming deflection. He simply nods, the tension in his shoulders confirming that he knows exactly who you are dealing with, and perhaps, that he feels the weight of his own inability to protect you from that specific demand.

You shake your head, feeling a sudden, overwhelming need to escape the suffocating air of the office and the sight of him sitting there—part accomplice, part stranger. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and storm toward the door.

You don't look back to see if he tries to stop you. You just walk out, leaving him alone in the quiet, the heavy burden of tomorrow's performance hanging between you like a physical weight.

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The moon hung high over the Night Court, casting long, mocking shadows across your bedroom floor. You spent the night staring at the ceiling, your mind a relentless loop of betrayal and calculation. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw your father's smug smile and felt the phantom touch of Rhysand's hand on your back.

The anger was a cold, sharp thing in your chest. Not just at your father for the bargain, but at Rhysand for waiting until the eleventh hour to tell you. He had let you believe you were entering a partnership of equals, only to reveal that you were essentially being sold as a prize to be authenticated.

But as the hours ticked by and the sky began to bleed into a pre-dawn grey, the anger began to harden into something far more useful: resolve.

You sat up, pushing the heavy blankets away. Your feet hit the cool stone floor, and you walked to the window, staring out at the expanse of the Night Court. You wouldn't be shackled to him. Not for long. This wasn't a life; it was a cage, and you were a master at finding the weaknesses in any structure.

You began to mentally map out your options. You needed resources, you needed a route, and you needed a way to move without alerting the most powerful High Lord in history or his spymaster, Azriel.

The wedding was tomorrow. You had the dress, you had the audience, and you had the performance. You would give them the show they wanted, and while they were busy watching the door for your father's sake, you would be busy watching the shadows for your own.

You paced the room, your mind sharp and clinical now, discarding fears in favor of strategy. You were a Vanserra, and you didn't bow to anyone—especially not to a husband who thought he could bargain your future away.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The sharp, insistent rap at your door cuts through the haze of your sleepless, restless morning. You groan, dragging yourself out of the tangle of sheets and stumbling toward the entrance, your mind still half-buried in the logistics of your escape plan.

When you pull the door open, the words of annoyance die in your throat.

Your mother is standing there.

You gasp, a sound that is half-sob, and before you can stop yourself, you lunge forward, wrapping your arms around her. She smells like home—like the gardens of your childhood before everything turned to ash and politics. She tucks you against her, her hand coming up to stroke the length of your long red hair in a slow, soothing rhythm.

You bury your face in the crook of her neck, letting out a shaky, broken sigh. You can't remember the last time you were held like this, the last time you weren't an asset to be traded or a daughter to be managed. The memory of your father's schemes and Rhysand's hidden secrets feels worlds away, eclipsed by the simple, grounding pressure of her arms.

She sighs against you, a sound of profound, weary sadness, and you feel her lips press gently against the top of your head.

"Let's get you ready," she whispers, her voice barely a tremor in the quiet hallway.

You pull back just enough to look at her, searching her face for a sign of the mother you used to know, the one who understood the cost of a crown. She offers you a thin, melancholic smile—a look that says she knows exactly what today is, and perhaps, what it is costing you to stand there.

Your mother moves through the room with a grace that seems almost at odds with the heaviness of the day. She shuts the door softly, sealing the two of you away from the prying eyes of the court, and then beckons you toward the vanity. You sit, the velvet cushion firm beneath you, and she begins to weave your hair into intricate patterns, her fingers nimble and practiced.

"How do you want it done?" she asks, her voice light, attempting to maintain a facade of normalcy.

You describe the style—pinned up, elegant, yet structured—and she gets to work, her reflection appearing over your shoulder in the mirror. You find yourself watching her movements with a strange intensity. You've spent so much time dissecting your father's cruelty that you've almost forgotten the woman who survives him.

The question that has been burning in your throat all night finally slips out. "Did you and Ber... father, have to..." You pause, unable to force the words past your lips, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Your mother's hands falter for a mere second before she tilts her head, her eyes meeting yours in the mirror with sudden, piercing clarity. "Perform the marriage act in front of court members?" she finishes the question for you, her tone devoid of its earlier lightness.

You nod, your throat tight. She freezes, her comb hovering in mid-air, and a long, tired sigh escapes her—a sound that carries decades of secrets. "Yes," she whispers.

You close your eyes, the crushing reality of what you agreed to last night resurfacing. A single, hot tear escapes, tracing a path down your cheek. But before you can spiral, your mother spins your chair around so you are facing her. She reaches out, her thumbs gently brushing the moisture from your skin.

"Him and I never did it," she says.

You blink, stunned, looking up at her in utter confusion. "What?"

Your mother lets out a laugh—a genuine, sharp, and slightly wicked sound that you haven't heard in years. She looks back at that night with a glint in her eyes that reminds you exactly where your own defiance comes from. She leans in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper.

"We just rubbed our legs together and moaned so the others would believe us. He said he would never touch me until I proved my full worthiness to bear his children." Your mother finished that sentence with an eye roll.

The absurdity of it hits you all at once. The image of the terrifying High Lord of the Autumn Court and your mother putting on a theatrical performance for a room full of gawking sycophants is so ridiculous that a soft, genuine laugh bubbles up from your chest. Your mother joins you, her laughter ringing out, light and free, temporarily breaking the tension that has held you hostage for days.

The laughter dies down, fading into a comfortable, shared warmth that feels like a rare, stolen treasure. The heavy oak door creaks open just enough to reveal Eris, his gaze sweeping the room with his usual guarded curiosity. He stops in the doorway, his eyes traveling from your mother's composed expression to your own flushed face.

His brows knit together for a split second, clearly baffled by the sight of the two of you—usually so poised and distant—dissolved in genuine mirth. But then, a slow, uncharacteristic smile softens the sharp lines of his face. He doesn't offer any cutting remarks or probing questions; instead, he simply closes the door behind him with a quiet click and walks toward the bed, sinking onto the edge of it with a weary grace.

You feel your mother's hands return to your hair, her touch steady and rhythmic once more. She catches your gaze in the vanity mirror, a conspiratorial wink sparkling in her eyes, reminding you that this moment—this tiny rebellion against the misery of the day—is yours to keep.

Eris watches you both for a moment, his presence surprisingly grounding. He doesn't press for the joke, but the tension that usually surrounds him when he's near the politics of the court seems to evaporate in the quiet of this room.

"You look like you're plotting something," Eris remarks, though his voice is devoid of its usual bite. He leans back, resting his elbows on his knees, watching your mother weave the final pins into place. "Or at least, you're enjoying yourselves enough to make me suspicious."

You turn your head just slightly, catching his eye in the mirror. You don't tell him the truth, but for the first time in a long time, you don't feel the need to hide from him, either.

"Just enjoying the quiet, Eris," you say softly, a small, genuine smile lingering on your lips. "It's a rare commodity today."

The room remains quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of hairpins clicking and the delicate scent of powders and perfumes. Eris stays put on the edge of the bed, a silent, steady sentinel, while your mother works with focused precision. She handles your face as if she is painting a masterpiece, though her hands tremble just slightly when she catches your eye in the reflection.

When the last touch of makeup is applied, she lets out a long, shaky breath, her composure wavering for a split second before she masks it with a mother's iron will. "Stand up," she whispers.

She leads you into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind you to leave Eris to his thoughts. The wedding dress, the heavy, intricate silk, awaits. As she helps you slip into it, the fabric feels cool and grounding against your skin, like armor.

You move to the small, circular window set into the stone wall of the bathroom to catch a glimpse of the sky, but instead, your gaze is drawn downward to the town square below.

Your stomach drops.

A sea of people has already gathered in the center of town. They are waiting—a massive, restless crowd, humming with the energy of a spectacle about to unfold. Flags are flying, and the anticipation is so thick you can practically taste it through the glass. They aren't just here to witness a union; they are here for the theater, for the confirmation, and for the spectacle of a Vanserra bride being handed over.

You turn away from the window, the reality of the coming hours crashing down on you. The time for plotting, for laughing, and for private moments is over.

"They're waiting," you murmur, your voice tight.

Your mother meets your gaze, her hands coming up to adjust the lace at your throat, her eyes filled with a desperate, fierce pride. "Then let them wait," she says, her voice steel. "You are a Vanserra. You walk out that door, you hold your head high, and you don't give them an inch more of yourself than you choose to."

The final zip of the gown echoes in the silence of the bathroom. You turn, and your mother's breath hitches, a single tear tracing a path through her makeup as she stares at you. "My beautiful daughter," she whispers, the words heavy with a lifetime of unspoken apologies.

You tilt your head, reaching out to brush that tear away with your thumb. "I know, Mama," you say softly. "I know."

You straighten your spine, pulling your composure around you like a second skin. You open the bathroom door, and Eris is there, checking the time on his watch. He looks up, his expression unreadable, before he nods. "It's time."

He reaches out, his hand gripping your arm and your mother's, and in a blink, the world dissolves into the familiar, nauseating pull of winnowing.

You materialize in the hidden staging area just outside the venue. Through the thick velvet curtains, you can hear the roar of the crowd—a restless, eager ocean of people waiting for their prize. The music begins, a haunting, sweeping melody that signals the start of the end. Your mother presses the bouquet into your hands, kisses your cheek with a fierceness that makes your heart ache, and slips away to walk down the aisle ahead of you.

Eris offers his arm. You take it, your grip steady.

"Smile," he whispers, his voice low and commanding.

You offer a practiced, regal tilt of your chin. The curtains are pulled back, and the sudden rush of sunlight and noise is blinding. You look up, searching through the sea of faces until your eyes lock with his.

Rhysand is standing at the altar, but the way he looks at you—as if the thousands of witnesses are mere shadows and you are the only solid thing in the world—strikes a chord deep within you. A strange, unexpected sigh of relief escapes you. In the center of this trap, he is a familiar anchor. You don't break his stare, even as Eris guides you forward, step by steady step.

As you reach the base of the small stage, the world seems to hold its breath. Rhysand extends his hand, his palm open and waiting. Eris gives you a subtle, encouraging nudge.

You don't hesitate. You release your brother's arm, and with a soft, deliberate movement, you place your hand into Rhysand's. His fingers close around yours, warm and firm, pulling you up into the light.

Rhysand's hand is warm as he leads you up the final step, his touch grounding despite the vertigo of the moment. He leans in just enough so that his breath stirs the hair at your temple. "You are breathtaking," he murmurs, his voice a low, private vow that contradicts the public nature of this charade.

You offer him a smile—a fragile, practiced thing—and settle into your place across from him.

The Autumn Court priestess steps forward. Her voice is like dry parchment, ancient and melodic, echoing across the silent square. "We stand beneath the gaze of the stars and the turning of the seasons," she intones, her hands sweeping wide. "This union is not merely a contract of land and blood, but a binding of spirit. You, daughter of the flame, are called to be the hearth of this court. You shall offer your loyalty to your new High Lord, your obedience to his mantle, and your grace to the people who now look to you for guidance. You are the shadow to his light, the stillness in his storm, and the vessel through which the future of this lineage shall be carved."

The weight of her words is suffocating. As she begins the vows, the air seems to curdle.

"Do you," the priestess asks, turning to you, "vow to be a faithful and obedient wife? To bear his children, to honor his decrees, and to serve your High Lord with a submissive heart until the very end of your days?"

The silence that follows is deafening. You see your father in the front row, his eyes narrowed, waiting for the crack in your armor. You look at Rhysand, who is watching you with an unreadable expression, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. The words bare his children, obey him taste like ash in your mouth. You hesitate, the pause stretching into an eternity, your heartbeat thundering in your ears.

"I do," you finally force out, your voice thin and brittle.

Rhysand's own vows follow, but they are a blur of polished lies and political pageantry. When the priestess finally pronounces you bound, the world feels as though it is tilting on its axis.

Without warning, Rhysand's hand settles firmly on your waist, pulling you into his space. The distance between you vanishes. He tilts his head, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that is startlingly soft—a mere peck—but the sudden proximity of him, the scent of him, and the finality of the act hit you like a physical blow.

A gasp escapes you, swallowed by his lips.

Then, the crowd erupts.

A roar of cheering, stamping, and applause surges around you, drowning out your own thoughts. People are rising to their feet, their faces blurred masks of approval. You look out over the sea of cheering citizens, and the terrifying truth crystalizes in the center of your chest, colder and harder than any blade:

You just sold the rest of your life away.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The reception is a blur of opulence and noise, a sensory assault of clinking glasses, heavy perfume, and the rhythmic thrum of music that feels increasingly distant. You remain anchored to the head table, a silent ornament, while the court whirls around you in a kaleidoscope of celebration.

Your attention, however, is tethered to the tension unfolding a few yards away. Rhysand is a study in controlled, lethal patience as he stares down your father. Whatever your father is demanding—some final concession, some hidden clause in the pact—he is pushing hard. Rhysand's jaw is locked, his hand white-knuckled around the stem of his glass.

You look down at your hand. The ring on your finger feels less like a piece of jewelry and more like a shackle forged of lead. You trace the cold, intricate metal, and a dark, seductive thought drifts through your mind: The lake. It's deep and obsidian-black just beyond the terrace doors. If you were to slip away, if you were to simply sink into the silence of the water, would the weight of this day finally dissolve?

The thought is so sharp it almost draws blood, but it's interrupted by the sudden shift in the air behind you.

Rhysand's presence washes over you, a familiar, grounding pressure. He leans down, his chest brushing the back of your chair, his lips hovering mere millimeters from your ear.

His voice is a low, rough rumble that vibrates right through your skin. "Let's head up."

A involuntary shiver cascades down your spine, the heat of his breath a stark contrast to the cold dread that has settled in your marrow. You don't ask where, or why; you simply nod, the motion stiff. You rise from the chair, the heavy skirts of your gown rustling like dead leaves, and turn to face him.

His eyes are dark, searching yours with a guarded intensity, as if he's trying to read the very thoughts you just tried to drown in the lake. He extends his arm, and despite everything, you find yourself reaching out to take it.

The hallway leading to the chambers is dim, the echoes of the party fading into an oppressive, heavy silence. Azriel is standing there, a shadow against the stone, his usual stoic mask fractured by a small, mournful smile. His eyes meet yours for a fraction of a second—a look of profound pity that makes your stomach churn. He knows. He knows what he has to stand guard for, and he knows what you have to do inside that room.

Rhysand walks with a deliberate, measured pace. When he reaches the heavy door of his chambers, he pushes it open, the hinges silent. He gestures for you to enter first.

As you cross the threshold, the air changes—it's cooler here, scented with mountain air and the faint, lingering trace of ink and citrus. You hear the soft, gravelly murmur of Azriel from the hall.

"I'll be out here, brother."

The sound of the door shutting is final. The click of the lock—a heavy, mechanical sound—reverberates through the room, sealing you both in.

Rhysand stands by the door for a moment, his back to you, his shoulders tight beneath the tailored fabric of his doublet. You are finally, truly alone. The theater is set. The audience of one waits outside in the hall, and the rest of your life is contained within these four stone walls.

You stand in the center of the room, the weight of the wedding gown feeling like a leaden shroud, clutching your arms across your chest. You don't know if you should speak, move, or simply wait for the script to continue.

Rhysand turns slowly. His expression is unreadable, stripped of the charming, High Lord veneer he wears for the court. He looks tired—bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. He slowly begins to unfasten his cloak, letting it slide to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your eyes trace the rhythmic movement of his fingers as he undoes his shirt, the tension in the room thick enough to cut. You step forward, reaching out to catch his wrist before he can unfasten another button, your frustration overriding the fear.

"Why can't we just lie?" you whisper, your gaze locking onto his.

Rhysand furrows his brows, his hand stalling against the fine fabric. "How would we do that?"

You shrug, letting go of his wrist, your expression hardening into a challenge. "Just tell Azriel to take a walk for thirty minutes. Keep him moving. Then, when the time is up, go tell my father you've... done what you needed to do. He isn't going to demand evidence beyond the word of his favorite spy, is he?"

Rhysand leans back slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he gives you a dry, lopsided look. "I'm offended you think it would only be thirty minutes, love."

You roll your eyes so hard your head hurts. "Fine. An hour."

Rhysand's smirk deepens, sharp and dangerous, as he leans into your space. "I don't know," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, velvet purr. "You are breathtaking tonight. I probably wouldn't have my fill of you after an hour."

The audacity of him, even in this staged reality, sends a surge of genuine heat through your blood—not just from the situation, but from the raw, infuriating playfulness he's bringing to a moment that feels like a prison sentence.

You let out a sharp, feral sound of protest as you step back and, without thinking, you kick off one of your heels and hurl it at him.

Rhysand doesn't even flinch. He stands perfectly still, letting the shoe smack against his bare chest before it clatters to the stone floor. He looks down at the shoe, then back up at you, his eyes glinting with a mix of genuine surprise and newfound, wicked delight.

Then suddenly, you pull his shirt, the fabric bunching in your fists, and press your lips against his with a desperate, hungry energy that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the frantic chaos of the day.

Rhysand gasps, the sound sharp and surprised, his hands instantly abandoning his pockets to tangle into your hair and pull you flush against him. He moans into the kiss, a low, vibration that you feel in your own chest. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his eyes are darker than the midnight sky, searching your face as he rasps, "Are we doing this?"

Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. You let out a shaky, jagged breath, trying to summon that cold, detached resolve you promised yourself. "It's just the duty we must do," you whisper, though your voice lacks the conviction you were aiming for.

Rhysand's gaze drops to your lips, his expression shifting into something unreadable—something heavy with both the role he has to play and the man he is beneath the High Lord's mask. "Just a duty," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath.

He doesn't waste another second. Before you can retract the words or overthink the reality of what is about to happen, he sweeps you up into his arms. The sudden weightlessness makes you cling to his shoulders as he carries you toward the bed. He lays you down against the soft, cool linens, his movements fluid and precise.

He hovers over you for a heartbeat, his shadow falling across your face, and you can practically feel the tension in the room spiking. Outside, you know Azriel is waiting, his super-hearing sharp enough to catch the rustle of sheets and the cadence of your breathing.

Your eyes move slowly across his shoulder towards the door as if you could see Azriel pacing.

Rhysand's growl is low, a visceral sound of frustration that vibrates against your skin. You were staring at the heavy oak door, your mind fixated on the spymaster standing guard on the other side, waiting for the sounds of a marriage being consummated. The violation of privacy, the absurdity of the theater—it all feels suffocating.

He catches your chin, his fingers firm as he forces your gaze away from the entrance and back to his face. "Don't worry about him," he commands, his voice dropping to a jagged edge.

"It's hard not to," you scoff, your heart hammering against your ribs, "when he's standing right outside just to hear us having sex, Rhysand."

Rhysand rolls his eyes, a flicker of genuine annoyance breaking through his composure. He releases you, rolls off the bed, and strides toward the door. With a sharp, decisive movement, he wrenches it open.

"Go walk around, brother," he says to the hallway, his tone clipped. "After thirty minutes, go tell Beron it's done."

A low, rich chuckle drifts into the room before Azriel even appears. "Just thirty minutes, Rhys?" the shadowsinger's voice is laced with dry, teasing amusement. "Is that really how long you can last, brother?"

Rhysand's jaw tightens. He doesn't bother with a witty comeback; he just rolls his eyes and slams the door shut, the heavy bolt sliding into place with a definitive thunk.

The room is suddenly, blissfully private. You scramble to your feet, your legs feeling unsteady, but Rhysand is already there. He closes the distance in two long strides, his expression softening as he reaches for you. He presses a lingering, soft kiss to your lips, then steps behind you, his hands ghosting over the silk of your gown.

He turns you around, his lips curling into a knowing, triumphant smirk against your skin. "I told you," he whispers into the curve of your neck, his voice a dangerous, heady thrill, "I would be in this position again."

His fingers find the zipper at your spine. With a slow, deliberate pull, he drags it downward. The air in the room feels electric as the heavy fabric gives way, sliding down your frame until it pools in a heap of discarded silk at your feet.

The silk gown lies in a forgotten heap at your feet, leaving you standing in the dim light in nothing but delicate white lace. Rhysand's smirk deepens, his eyes darkening as they travel over you, stripped of the last of his High Lord pretense.

He steps closer, which makes you turn around and face him. The heat radiating from him a stark contrast to the cool, quiet air of the room. His hand reaches out, his touch impossibly light, as he begins to trace a slow, deliberate line from your collarbone, down the center of your chest, and across the sensitive skin of your stomach.

His fingertip drags against your skin, lingering over the lace, and you feel your breath hitch. The teasing tension from the hallway—the banter about the thirty-minute window—seems to vanish, replaced by a sudden, heavy gravity.

"You look..." he starts, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful edge for something far more raw. He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to.

You stand there, shivering slightly under his touch, the reality of the moment settling in. Azriel is gone, your father is being misled, and for the first time since the wedding began, there is no performance, no audience, just a duty between two high fae. There is only the two of you, the silence of the room, and the way his hand is tracing paths against your skin as if he is trying to memorize you.

He looks up from your midriff, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your pulse drum erratically in your throat. He doesn't pull away, instead, he presses his hand flat against your stomach, grounding you, his thumb brushing the edge of the lace.

"Thirty minutes," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours for an answer to a question he hasn't yet dared to ask. "What would you like to do with them?"

A soft, challenging chuckle escapes you, and you look up at him through your lashes. "I thought you said you could last longer than thirty minutes," you whisper, the taunt echoing in the quiet space between you.

Rhysand's smirk sharpens into something predatory. He lunges, his hand tangling firmly in your hair to tilt your head back as he seals his mouth over yours. The kiss is deep, grounding, and demanding. As he tugs at your hair, a low, needy moan escapes you, and your hands move with a frantic, renewed urgency. You drag your fingers down his chest, the buttons of his shirt giving way under your impatient touch. With a swift movement, he shrugs the fabric off his shoulders, letting it join your dress on the floor.

His hands find the delicate lace of your undergarments at your back. With a sudden, decisive rip, the fabric gives way. You gasp, the cool air rushing over your exposed skin, and a deep, guttural groan tears from Rhysand's throat. His eyes darken as he takes in the sight of you, his gaze hungry and reverent. He pulls you against him, his lips finding your collarbone, dragging downward until he takes your nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling against the sensitive peak.

The sensation sends a bolt of electricity straight to your core. You reach for him, your fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt and the button of his trousers. You work them open, and as his trousers slide down, he leans back, his breath hitching, a dark, pleased sound vibrating in his chest. "Greedy girl," he rasps, his voice thick with desire.

You don't bother with a reply. You simply nod, your eyes locked onto his, a silent admission of everything you want. He returns to his work, his mouth hot and insistent against your skin, but the need to be closer, to take control, overrides your patience.

With a swift, fluid movement, you turn, pressing him back against the linens. You move with a surge of adrenaline, straddling him, pinning him to the bed.

The friction of your body against his is electric, a sharp, jarring contrast to the tension of the last few days. As you grind against him, Rhysand's head falls back against the pillows, a low, guttural moan vibrating through the bedframe as he realizes just how ready you are.

He reaches up, his fingers tracing the curve of your hips, his eyes burning as he looks up at you. "Let me stretch you out, darling," he rasps, his voice ragged with the effort of holding back.

You shake your head, your hair cascading over your shoulders, your expression fierce and unyielding. "I'm too impatient," you whisper, the admission raw.

Rhysand's smirk is a wicked, handsome thing. He lets you lead. You lift yourself, shifting until you find your rhythm, and then you lower yourself down. As you take him in, the world seems to sharpen and then blur. You both moan in unison—the sound a mix of pleasure and pure, overwhelming relief. The stretch is intense, a feeling of being filled completely, and you feel his muscles lock beneath you as he gasps at the exquisite tightness of your body.

Rhysand doesn't stay passive for long. He sits up, his hands gripping your waist, and begins to grind upward, meeting every one of your movements with a synchronized, driving force. You gasp, your head thrown back, as he shifts his focus back to your chest. He nips at your nipple, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin while he moans around it, a sound that fuels the fire already consuming you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just hard enough to keep him exactly where you want him, lost in the rhythm you've created together.

You move with a rhythm that is both frantic and deliberate, bouncing on him until the friction feels like it's set your very nerves on fire. Rhysand's moan erupts, loud and unbidden, and you quickly clamp your hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

"I didn't realize Illyrians were so loud during sex," you whisper, a breathless, teasing laugh escaping you despite the intensity.

He lets out a muffled huff against your palm, then reaches up to smack your backside with a playful, stinging force. The sensation sends a jolt through you, and he takes advantage of your distraction to grip your hips, pulling you down harder, faster, onto him.

Rhysand groans at your words his next words are his rough and his voice vibrates against your skin as he pushes up to meet you, "your pussy just feels so good, darling. I can't help it."

You let your head fall back, a groan of pure, unadulterated pleasure tearing from your throat. Your resistance is dissolving with every thrust. Rhysand buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged as he begins to set the pace, his hips grinding up into you with a relentless, heavy force. He tugs you down onto him harder, dragging you into a collision of bodies that makes the rest of the world—the court, the wedding, and the looming threat of the future—completely vanish.

The tension that has been building since the moment you entered the room shatters in a spectacular, breathless collision. You tighten around him, your body convulsing as you reach your peak, and with a guttural, primal growl, Rhysand follows you over the edge, his hands gripping your hips so hard they surely leave marks.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your ragged, synchronized breathing and the heavy thud of your hearts slowing back to a human cadence.

You collapse forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder, a soft, victorious giggle bubbling up from your chest. Rhysand, his strength momentarily spent, simply hums, his lips trailing lazy, lingering kisses from the hollow of your collarbone up to your sensitive skin, his tongue flicking against your nipple in a final, languid possessiveness.

You tilt your head back, catching his gaze with a glint of mischief that he is too dazed to immediately parse.

"I guess you were wrong," you whisper.

Rhysand blinks, his pupils still blown wide, looking up at you with a hazy, utterly confused expression. He opens his mouth to ask what you mean, but you don't give him the chance. You lean in, your voice dropping to a teasing, breathless purr.

"You couldn't even last thirty minutes."

His confusion evaporates instantly, replaced by a slow, lopsided smirk that radiates pure, unrepentant satisfaction. He doesn't even try to defend his pride, he just pulls you closer, tucking your head back into the crook of his neck, and lets out a soft, low chuckle that rumbles through his chest.

"I suppose I couldn't," he murmurs, his voice thick with a mixture of exhaustion and profound amusement. "But I think we both know that wasn't exactly a hardship."

[hockeylover25]

The Arrangement

Part II

Rhysand x Vanserra!Reader

Summary: it has been three days since you’ve moved into the night court and the High Lord believes you should already trust him. But after moments of wedding planning and just listening to your brother you overthink your words you spoke to your soon to be husband.

Warnings: basically just mean reader… kinda, her rudeness is so valid, talks of Eris’s soldiers accident, … I think that’s it… Lmk if yall find any tho!

Authors note: SURPRISE! I decided to post early because I love this chapter😭. There is so much to come with this series and I am so excited just brain storming what I want to come next. Tbh… I have no clue how long this will be now because I want to write so much for this! But as always, hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The silence of your chambers in the Night Court was a brittle, precious thing—a stark contrast to the constant, suffocating weight of the Autumn Court's politics. Three days. Seventy-two hours of living in a gilded cage that, while beautiful, felt like an insult to everything you had been raised to believe.

You adjusted your position in the velvet armchair, the heavy fabric of your gown rustling softly. Your book lay open in your lap, but the words were beginning to blur. You weren't here because you missed the biting winds of home or the way the leaves turned to embers underfoot. You were here as a bargaining chip, a pawn in a game played by men who thought they understood the board better than you did.

A faint, scuffing sound outside your door earlier had alerted you that Cassian was looming nearby, likely looking for another "effort" to integrate you into the Inner Circle. The General. The thought made your blood simmer with a cold, sharp bitterness. You remembered the carnage of that skirmish—the way he and the Shadow Master had carved through Eris's soldiers. They had seen monsters, enemies to be dismantled, never realizing that those men had been puppets, their wills hollowed out and discarded by the Queens command.

The memory had been enough to send a flicker of flame toward the door when Cassian tried to usher you to dinner earlier. The look of genuine surprise—and the undignified yelp—that had escaped him as he scrambled back from the singed wood had been the only moment of satisfaction you'd had since arriving.

It seemed the message had finally landed. He hadn't returned for hours.

The room was quiet now, save for the crackle of the hearth and the distant, rhythmic pulse of the city below. You took a slow, steadying breath, pressing your thumb against the page of your book. For the first time since being dragged to Velaris, the suffocating presence of the Night Court's guardians was gone, leaving you with nothing but your own thoughts and the mounting, dangerous plans you were already beginning to weave against them.

You finally had the solitude you craved. But in a court built on secrets and shadows, you knew that privacy was rarely as simple as a closed door.

As you finally relaxed into the chair, you couldn't help but feel as if you were being watched.

The hairs on the back of your neck prickled, a warning instinct honed in the treacherous halls of the Autumn Court. You didn't need to look to know who was there. You could feel the shift in the air—the sudden, heavy of power that made the atmosphere feel thick and pressurized.

You turned your head slowly. Rhysand was leaning against the bookshelf, looking entirely too comfortable, his violet eyes tracking you with that infuriating, predatory calm.

You rolled your eyes, a sharp, dismissive gesture, and turned back to your book. But the air shifted again. He moved with the silence of a predator, and before you could blink, his hands settled onto your shoulders. The contact felt like a brand. You were up and out of the chair in a heartbeat, spinning to face him, your voice a lethal whisper:

"Get your filthy hands off of me."

Rhysand didn't recoil. Instead, he simply slipped his hands into his pant pockets, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "There's the Vanserra snark I was waiting for."

You snarled, the sound raw and visceral, and turned on your heel to storm out. You were finished with the pleasantries, finished with the games.

"Wait," he called out.

The command hit your spine like a physical weight. You paused, your hand gripping the cold stone of the doorway, and looked back over your shoulder. Rhysand closed the distance between you, his movements fluid and intentional. He reached out, his fingers brushing a lock of hair away from your face with an intimacy that made your stomach churn. You swatted his hand away with a sharp crack of your palm against his skin.

He smiled, undeterred. "I hope you realize that you have to at least pretend you like my company."

You shook your head, the disdain evident in every line of your posture. He watched you, a glimmer of genuine curiosity in his eyes. "What must I do?" he asked, his voice lower, lacking the performative edge.

You paused, your silhouette framed by the hallway light. You leaned back slightly, your voice barely a breath. "Nothing. Do absolutely nothing."

His brows furrowed, the mask of the High Lord slipping just enough to show genuine confusion. You turned to face him fully, your expression hardening. "Because everything you and your court does is all lies anyway."

He let out a long, weary sigh, his name for you dying on his lips as you turned your back on him for good.

The dining hall was a cavern of light and noise, a jarring transition from the suffocating silence of your room. As you strode in, the atmosphere at the table shifted. You didn't wait for an invitation; you pulled out the chair next to Cassian and sat.

Cassian looked up, his expression guarded, while Azriel's eyes widened, his gaze darting toward you with a wariness that spoke volumes. You didn't bother with greetings. You began to eat, the silver clinking sharply against the fine porcelain.

"Finally come to your senses, Vanserra?"

Amren's voice cut through the air, sharp and jagged. She smirked as she spoke your name, imbuing it with a weight that felt like a curse. You hated it. You hated the way she spat the syllables, as if the very name was a dark, roiling presence in the room. You knew the weight of that name better than anyone—you knew the history, the blood, and the inherited trauma that clung to it like smoke—and hearing it from her only reminded you that, here, you would never be anything more than the monster's daughter.

The tension at the table was thick enough to carve. When Rhysand finally entered, the air in the room seemed to compress. He took the seat directly across from you, his violet eyes unblinking, tracing the line of your jaw and the way you held your fork before he finally lifted his own glass.

You were too focused on the meal—and the sheer audacity of your presence there—to notice the silent exchange between Cassian and Azriel. They traded a sharp, measuring look, their gazes flickering between you and their High Lord, a silent communication that spoke of things you weren't meant to hear.

Then, the silence shattered.

"Manon will be here tomorrow," Rhysand said, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm.

You paused, your fork hovering over your plate. You furrowed your brows, irritation flaring in your chest. "Who the hell is that?"

Rhysand's smirk was slow and deliberate. "Our wedding planner."

The reaction was instantaneous. A spray of deep red wine erupted from Cassian's mouth as he choked, coughing violently. Mor, seated beside him, began to pat his back, her expression a mix of amusement and annoyance. You spared a sharp, unimpressed glance at the General as he wheezed, "I keep forgetting... this arrangement you have."

You rolled your eyes, the gesture heavy with disdain. Rhysand didn't even look at his friend; his gaze remained locked on you. "Manon wants to meet with both of us to know what we both want."

A scoff escaped your throat, turning into a bitter, incredulous laugh. "What we both want?"

Rhysand nodded, unfazed. "Exactly."

You leaned forward, your voice dropping to a jagged whisper, cold and precise. "So, can she cancel the wedding in general?"

Rhysand's eyes darkened, and he let out an exasperated huff, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "You know we can't do that."

You didn't wait for him to elaborate on the political necessity of your misery. You stood abruptly, your chair scraping harshly against the floor. "I'm full."

You turned and walked away, not caring how the room fell silent in your wake. Behind you, the sound of Cassian choking resumed, more frantic than before. You could see the faint, irritated pinch of Rhysand's fingers against the bridge of his nose as the General hissed, loud enough to carry, "Go to her."

You kept walking, your footsteps rhythmic and sharp, though you felt the weight of Rhysand's gaze lingering on your back, heavy and insistent. Even as you retreated, the sense of being pursued—not by a hunter, but by a man who refused to let you escape the cage he'd built—followed you into the shadows of the hallway.

When you make your way into your bedchamber, you shut the door carefully and begin pacing as you think about this wedding planning.

A wedding you never wanted.

A wedding that shouldn't even be real.

As you pace, you groan at the itch from the night court dress you have been wearing today.

The frustration had been clawing at your skin all evening, the fabric of this Night Court finery feeling more like a shroud than a gown. You retreated to your room, your fingers fumbling clumsily with the intricate, infuriating fastenings at the back of the dress.

"Stupid, useless thing," you hissed, tugging at a knot that refused to give.

A soft, melodic chuckle drifted through the quiet air of your chamber. You spun around, your heart hammering against your ribs, to find Rhysand just closing the bedroom door behind him, his violet eyes alight with a maddeningly calm amusement.

You glared at him, your hands balling into fists at your sides. "Would you mind?"

Rhysand didn't look away. Instead, he gave a slow, lazy nod and gestured with a circular motion of his finger, a silent command for you to turn back around.

You hesitated, the heat of your indignation warring with the simple need to be out of the dress. You turned. You felt the shift in the air as he stepped close—too close—the heat of his body radiating against your back. His fingers, warm and steady, began to work the fastenings with practiced ease.

"I thought," he whispered, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your neck, "that you would only let me do this on our wedding night."

The audacity of it sparked a fire in your blood that had nothing to do with your magic. You whipped around, your hand flying out to slap his cheek with a sharp crack.

The sound echoed in the sudden silence. Rhysand paused, his head turned to the side, the mark of your palm blooming on his skin. He didn't blink. He didn't grow angry. He simply reached out, his hands firmly grasping your waist, and forced you to turn back around, his touch immovable. He resumed working on the dress, his movements methodical and agonizingly slow.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat as his fingers grazed your spine. "Why must you make jokes of this?" you whispered, your voice trembling with the effort to remain cold.

He shrugged behind you, his voice low, lacking its usual veneer of High Lord perfection. "I don't know. I guess it's because it's the way I'm dealing with this."

The dress finally loosened, pooling around your ankles in a heap of silk and lace. You stepped out of it, leaving you in nothing but your thin underdress. You turned to face him, defiant, watching as his gaze swept slowly down the length of you before snapping back to your eyes, dark and unreadable.

"This will be our life, Rhysand," you said, your voice cutting through the space between you. "For as long as my father is alive. And all you do is make fun and just irritate me."

He held your gaze, his expression uncharacteristically guarded, as if the reality of your words had finally breached the armor he wore so easily.

Rhysand studies your face for a long, heavy moment after your statement, the playfulness finally bled out of his expression.

Finally he moves, and his hands moved to your face, his palms cupping your cheeks with a firm, grounding pressure. He held your head steady, forcing you to look at him, to see the intensity that burned behind his violet eyes. Your breath hitched, you hadn't expected the sudden shift from his teasing to this raw, focused gravity.

"Make your father regret this," he whispered, his voice like velvet dragged over gravel.

You furrowed your brows, your heart thumping against your ribs. "What?"

He gave a sharp, resolute nod. "Make him regret the decision of forcing his strong, only daughter into the hands of the coldest High Lord."

A shiver raced down your spine, the sheer weight of his suggestion settling in your stomach. You pulled back, your voice barely a broken thread of sound. "I can't."

Rhysand leaned back slightly, his hands slipping from your face as if the rejection burned him. "You can't?"

"How can I trust this court?" you countered, your voice growing sharper with the effort to mask your vulnerability. "How can I trust your men—and you—after what you did to my brother?"

Rhysand's jaw tightened, his expression darkening with a flicker of defensive steel. "That was an accident, and Eris knows it."

You shook your head, the bitter memory of that battlefield—of men you had known, turned into puppets by Queen Briallyn and Koschei cruelty and then cut down by the Night Court—surging to the surface. "That doesn't mean I can trust you."

He watched you for a long, heavy silence, his expression unreadable. "Will you ever?"

You offered a small, dismissive shrug, the movement stiff. "I don't know."

Rhysand let out a frustrated, sharp breath, running a hand down his face before he snarled, a low, dangerous sound of pure agitation. "We have no clue how long this arrangement will last, and you can say you will never trust me—"

"I can't trust you, Rhysand," you interrupted, your voice dropping to a weary, cynical tone. "People leave. They always leave before I can even blink, so why should I waste my time on you?"

The silence that followed was brittle. Rhysand looked at you, his eyes searching yours for a lie, but all he found was the hardened, defensive wall you had built to survive the life your father had forced upon you. He looked as if he wanted to argue, to demand, to command, but the raw honesty of your fear seemed to anchor him to the spot.

Rhysand stands there, his hands finally dropping to his sides, looking at you not as a pawn, but as a person who has been pushed to the brink.

The heavy silence of the chamber stretched on, charged with the sudden, jagged honesty of your words. Rhysand stood motionless for a long heartbeat, his violet eyes searching yours with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. He seemed to be weighing every syllable, every drop of defensive venom you had just poured out.

Finally, he let out a slow, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping from their rigid posture. He turned his head away from you, his gaze drifting to the dark, intricate patterns on the stone walls, as if he couldn't bear to look at you while he spoke.

"This is what you want?" he whispered, his voice stripped of the High Lord's usual iron command. It was quiet, almost defeated. "You want this arrangement to be just that? Nothing more than a contract signed in blood and resentment?"

You felt a hollow ache in your chest, but you hardened your heart against it. You couldn't afford to see the flicker of vulnerability in him; you couldn't afford to see him as anything other than the man who had ordered your brother's soldiers to their deaths.

You gave a sharp, definitive nod. "That is all it was ever going to be," you whispered back, the words firm, leaving no room for negotiation.

Rhysand stood still for a long moment, the air between you humming with suppressed power. Then, he moved. He didn't roar, and he didn't command. He stepped into your space, the scent of night-blooming flowers and ozone surrounding you, and leaned in. He pressed a brief, cool kiss to your cheek—a gesture that felt like a goodbye, or perhaps a sealing of the very fate you had just demanded.

You let out a shaky, involuntary sigh, your eyes closing against the sensation. When you opened them, he was already walking away. You watched, frozen, as he reached the door and pulled it shut behind him. The click of the latch echoed in the stillness like a gunshot.

You kept your gaze locked on the door, your breath held tight in your chest, waiting for the handle to turn, for him to storm back inside and shatter your resolve. You waited for the arrogance, the demands, the cruel humor—anything to break the crushing weight of the silence.

But after a minute, then two, the hallway remained stubbornly quiet.

The realization hit you then: he had listened. He had given you exactly what you asked for.

With a shaky hand, you wiped your face, as if to rub away the lingering warmth of his skin. You turned away from the door, the emptiness of the room suddenly pressing in on you. You walked to the bed, your legs feeling heavy and leaden, and collapsed onto the mattress. You stared up into the dark rafters, the weight of the night settling over you, realizing that for all your defiance, you were still here—trapped, alone, and bound to the very man you were so desperate to hate.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The next morning, The sharp, insistent rap at your door acted like a jolt to your system. You groaned, the remnants of a restless, dream-filled sleep clinging to you, and stumbled out of bed to pull the door open.

Rhysand stood in the hallway, looking entirely too composed for the early hour. His eyes scanned your disheveled state for a fraction of a second before he clipped out a single command, "get dressed."

You rolled your eyes, a retort already poised on the tip of your tongue, but he didn't give you the satisfaction of a debate. He turned on his heel and walked away, his stride long and purposeful, leaving you staring at his retreating back.

You slammed the door shut, the wood vibrating with your frustration. Get dressed. As if you were a child being ordered about. You stomped over to the closet, ignoring the rows of ornate, restrictive gowns provided for you. Your fingers brushed past the silks and velvets until they found comfort—a pair of sturdy jeans and a soft, worn-in sweater. You pulled them on with a grim sense of satisfaction, relishing the feeling of fabric that wouldn't irritate your skin or remind you of your status as a prize to be displayed.

Once you were ready, you made your way downstairs, the quiet of the house belying the tension you knew waited below.

As you stepped into the dining area, the scene stopped you in your tracks. Rhysand was seated at the head of the table, his attention fully occupied by a woman with striking, ice-white hair. They were huddled over a series of sketches and fabric swatches—flower arrangements, by the look of the intricate, thorny blossoms splayed across the mahogany.

The woman looked up as your boots clicked against the floor, her gaze sharp and assessing, her features possessing a cold, regal beauty that made your own posture stiffen in immediate defense.

Rhysand didn't stand, but his focus shifted to you, his expression unreadable. "You're late," he murmured, though there was no heat in it. "We were just discussing the logistics."

The white-haired fae tilted her head, a slow, predatory smirk touching her lips as she took in your attire—your jeans and sweater—and then looked back to Rhysand. "I see," she said, her voice like crushed glass. "So, this is the bride-to-be."

You pulled out the chair beside Rhysand, the legs scraping against the floorboards with a sound that felt too loud in the sudden quiet of the room. You settled into the seat, pointedly ignoring the way the High Lord shifted his posture, his attention tethered to you even as he pretended to focus on the papers.

Manon's gaze flickered between you, her smile tight and professional. She fanned out a series of parchment sheets across the table, each depicting different floral themes—some bright and ethereal, others dark and sharp. "Any of them you like?" she asked, her voice calm and clinical.

You looked down at the sketches, your expression carefully neutral. You gave a small, noncommittal shrug, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of an opinion. But you felt Rhysand's eyes on you, heavy and perceptive. He reached across the table, his long fingers trailing over the options until he snagged a picture featuring deep, burnt-orange foliage, rich golds, and dark, thorny vines—an unmistakable echo of the Autumn Court.

"I like these," he murmured, his voice low.

You glanced over at him, surprised by the choice. For a second, the mask of the cold High Lord flickered, revealing something almost... nostalgic. You looked back at the picture, the familiar colors tugging at a piece of you that you'd tried to bury. "Those are pretty," you whispered, the admission slipping out before you could stop it.

Manon's eyes brightened, a knowing light entering them. "So, we are going for an autumn feeling?"

You opened your mouth to shrug it off, to clarify that you weren't "going for" anything, but Rhysand beat you to it. He nodded firmly. "Yes," he said, his tone resolute. "We agreed so we bring her home to Velaris."

Your breath hitched. You looked up at him, startled. Bringing her home. The phrasing felt like a double-edged sword—a concession to your origins, or a way to stake his claim on your past.

Manon tilted her head, her smile turning genuine. "Isn't that sweet?"

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, caught between irritation and a strange, unwelcome surge of warmth. You quickly looked away, hiding your expression by focusing intensely on the next stack of plans Manon was sliding your way. You didn't want to think about why he'd chosen the autumn theme, or what it meant for him to acknowledge that part of you, so you let the chatter of wedding logistics drown out the sudden, erratic rhythm of your own heart.

The vibrancy of the autumn colors on the table suddenly felt like a physical weight, suffocating and sharp. Every shade of burnt orange and deep gold reminded you of the court you had spent your entire life trying to escape—a place that was, for you, nothing but a gilded hell. The thought of walking down an aisle surrounded by the aesthetic of your father's cruelty was more than you could stomach.

You stood so abruptly your chair clattered backward. The air in the room grew too thin.

"I'll be back," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling.

Before Manon could even register the shift, you were already moving toward the door. You didn't look back, but you felt the sudden shift in the room as Rhysand rose to follow. You made it to the hallway, your back pressing against the cold stone wall, your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to regain control of your spiraling thoughts.

When he stepped into the hallway, his presence was a dark, grounding anchor. He stopped a few feet away, his hands sliding into his pockets, his posture cautious. "You alright?"

You shook your head, the motion jerky. He didn't hesitate; he pulled his hands out and stepped into your space, his palms finding your shoulders. His touch was firm, steadying. "What is wrong?"

You cast a fearful look back toward the dining room, toward the remnants of the autumn theme. "I don't want an autumn wedding," you whispered, the confession raw.

His brows furrowed in genuine confusion. "What? I... I thought that's what you would want. To feel a piece of home here."

"No," you breathed, shaking your head vigorously. "I don't. I want something that will not remind me of that place. I want nothing to do with it."

Rhysand studied you, his violet eyes scanning your face, looking for the truth—and finding it. He nodded slowly, his expression softening into something you hadn't expected to see: absolute, unwavering support.

"How about a starlight wedding?" he offered, his voice low and intimate. "It will be at night. We can have it outside, under the stars of Velaris. No leaves, no embers. Just the night."

You blinked, stunned. "You'll do that? You'd open up Velaris to my father, just for a theme?"

"I would do anything for you," he said, the words simple but carrying the weight of a vow.

You felt a hot sting of shame behind your eyes, the realization of how unfairly you had treated him warring with the relief you felt. You looked down at your boots, your voice barely audible. "Thank you."

Rhysand gave a small, affirming nod. He glanced back at the dining room, where Manon was still waiting, watching the door with a sharp, curious expression. "Why don't I deal with Manon?"

You looked up, startled by the offer. He nodded again, his jaw set with quiet determination. "You just show up in the most beautiful dress you can find, and I'll do the rest."

You offered a soft, hesitant nod, a ghost of a smile touching your lips. Rhysand returned the gesture, a genuine, warm smile that reached his eyes, before he turned back to the dining room. He stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him, cutting off any chance for you to hear how he intended to convince the planner to scrap everything they had just discussed.

You stood alone in the quiet hallway, your heart beating a little steadier, the dread of the morning replaced by a fragile, newfound sense of possibility.

Inside the dining hall, the atmosphere had shifted from professional collaboration to a tense, singular focus. Rhysand didn't bother with pleasantries. He gathered the rejected sketches of orange and gold foliage, the edges of the parchment crinkling under his grip, and set them aside.

"She doesn't want this," he said, his voice flat.

Manon leaned back, her eyes narrowing as she watched him. She wasn't just a planner; she was a woman who knew power when she saw it. "Well," she sighed, resting her chin on her hand, "what does the bride want?"

Rhysand tilted his head, his gaze unfocused as if he were still replaying the moment in the hallway. "I think her and I are just going to plan everything."

Manon's brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine incredulity crossing her features. "Rhys, it doesn't even seem like your bride stands you," she pointed out, her voice dropping into a sharp, observant whisper. "How exactly do you intend to plan a wedding with someone who can barely look at you without wanting to throw a fireball?"

Rhysand shrugged, the movement careless, though his jaw remained tight. He stood, his presence suddenly looming over the table. "I'll figure it out."

Manon smirked. She saw right through the bravado, she knew the High Lord was already prepared to move heaven and earth—or at least the entire Night Court—to get his way. "Rhys," she said, her voice softening into a warning. "Let me help you."

He looked up, his expression hardening. "I told her we should do a starlight wedding. We'll hold it at night, under the open sky, and bring people here when the stars are out."

Manon blinked, clearly taken aback by the magnitude of the request. Opening the Night Court, exposing its heart to the prying eyes of the other courts—it was a massive security risk, even for him. "And what did she say?"

Rhysand ran a hand over his face, a weary smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he remembered your reaction. "She agreed. So I told her to just get a dress and show up."

Manon let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Very High Lord of you."

Rhysand grumbled, his cheeks flushing a faint, irritated shade of violet. "Shut it."

He didn't wait for her to tease him further. He turned his back on the papers, his mind already racing with the logistics of starlight and secrecy, determined to make the night perfect—even if he had to dismantle his own court to do it.

You are still out in the hall, unaware of the exact words exchanged, but you can feel the shift in the room's energy

The hallway felt endless as you sat on the carved bench, the silence pressing in on you. You were just about to stand, your patience for the uncertainty of the morning wearing thin, when the heavy oak door finally swung open.

Manon stepped out, her expression no longer clinical or sharp, but surprisingly softened. She offered you a small, knowing nod as she passed, a silent farewell that left you feeling strangely exposed.

You watched her retreating figure for a moment before turning your attention back to the doorway. Rhysand was there, leaning casually against the frame, his violet eyes tracking every micro-expression on your face. He wore a small, lingering smirk, but there was a depth behind it that made your pulse quicken.

You felt a warmth crawl up your neck, a soft blush that you couldn't quite suppress under his intent gaze. You shifted, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes. "I'm sorry," you whispered.

He didn't deflect it with a joke or a sharp retort. He just gave a small, slow shrug. "I understand."

For a fleeting second, the wall between you dropped. You looked into his eyes and, for the first time, you truly saw it—he did understand. The weight of his own burdens, the isolation of his position, the way he was trying to navigate this impossible arrangement—it was all there. He was offering you a tether; if you ever wanted to talk, if you ever needed to drop the act, the door was open.

You nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the truce, and turned to walk away. You took a few steps down the hall before the impulse hit you. You paused, your hand resting against the cool stone of the wall, and looked back over your shoulder.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words small but sincere.

Rhysand gave you a sharp, affirming nod, his gaze steady as he watched you move toward the stairs. He didn't follow. He didn't command. He just stood there, watching until the curve of the corridor finally pulled you out of his line of sight.

Only then did he move. He let his head fall back against the wood of the doorframe, a long, ragged sigh escaping him—the sound of a man who had just played the most difficult hand of his life and was starting to realize just how much of himself he was putting at stake.

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 🌙 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

The library was the only place in the Night Court that felt somewhat neutral, a sanctuary of paper and ink where you could forget the political chess match for a few hours. The soft clearing of a throat pulled you from your book, and you looked up to see Eris standing there, looking uncharacteristically out of place against the dark, starlit shelves of Velaris.

Your breath hitched. You were across the room in a flash, throwing your arms around him. For a moment, you weren't the High Lord's betrothed or a pawn; you were just his sister.

"How are you?" he asked, his voice low, pulling back to study your face with searching eyes.

"I'm okay," you lied, though the ghost of a smile felt real for the first time in days.

Eris gave you a knowing look. "I have a surprise for you."

You groaned, already suspecting his brand of 'surprises.' He chuckled, steering you toward your chambers. The anticipation made your stomach churn with a strange blend of anxiety and irritation. "I swear, Eris, if you hired a male to—"

"Quiet, you," he interrupted with a pained groan, opening the door to your room.

You stepped inside, and the words died in your throat. Drapped over your bed was a dress—gorgeous, intricate, and painfully familiar. Your mother's wedding dress. You gasped, your hands flying to your mouth. You turned to Eris, your voice a trembling whisper. "What... how did you?"

Eris smiled, a sad, weary thing. "Mother found me when Beron was in a meeting in the Summer Court. She heard what was happening, and she wanted you to have this."

You reached out, your fingers hovering over the fabric, then recoiled. You turned back to him, brow furrowed. "I can't. Why would I wear a dress on a day where she was bound to a monster?"

Eris moved closer, his gaze softening. "She was hoping this dress might hold better memories this time. New beginnings, sister."

A single tear tracked down your cheek. "Then why can't I wear it on my real wedding day?"

Eris sighed, his hand resting heavy on your shoulder. "You know how long this arrangement might last. This dress... it needs to be worn for the show, my dear sister."

You looked at the dress, then back at him. You nodded slowly, the weight of the reality settling in. Eris used his thumb to gently wipe the tear from your cheek.

"Okay," you whispered. "I'll wear it."

He kissed the top of your head, a gesture of comfort you had been starved for. "What is the theme?" he asked, his voice curious.

You glanced away from the dress, a small, genuine smile forming as you thought of the conversation in the hallway. "Rhysand... we decided on a starlight theme. Outside, under the stars."

Eris's eyebrows shot up, but as he looked at your face, he noticed something he hadn't seen in years: a faint, internal glow, a flicker of genuine hope. He didn't question it. "Okay," he said simply.

"I must go," he said, turning to leave. "But I'll see you in a couple of days."

You grabbed his arm, pulling him back for just a second. "Eris? Can you walk me?"

He looked confused for a moment, and you couldn't help but chuckle. "Down the aisle. You're the one who practically raised me..."

His expression softened, and he nodded with profound solemnity. "I would be honored."

"Will Beron be mad?" you asked, a flicker of your old fear surfacing.

Eris let out a sharp, cynical laugh. "He'll be too drunk by the time the ceremony starts to notice anything at all."

You laughed, the sound bright and unburdened, and for the first time since leaving home, you felt like you might actually survive the path ahead.

The sound of your laughter had been a siren song, pulling Rhysand toward your door. He had stood there for a moment, the ghost of a smile touching his lips at the rare, genuine sound, only to knock and find his composure shattered when the door opened to reveal Eris, not you.

You didn't give Rhysand a chance to react to your brother's presence. You slipped past them both, pulling the door shut behind you and leaving Eris inside, effectively shielding the room from the High Lord's sight.

You turned on Rhysand, glaring, though your cheeks were already heating up. He furrowed his brows, confused by your sudden, defensive posturing. "What?" he whispered.

"You can't look in there," you snapped.

Rhysand looked back at the closed door, then down at you, his eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and challenge. He shrugged, his voice dropping to a teasing, low hum. "And why can't I?"

You sighed, frustration and embarrassment warring in your chest. You muttered the words under your breath, hoping he wouldn't catch them.

He didn't miss a beat. He leaned closer, his face dipping toward yours, his voice a gravelly rumble. "What was that?"

You let out a sharp, ragged breath and muttered it again, louder this time. He took the opportunity to close the distance, nudging his nose against your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. "I can't hear you, love."

A shiver raced down your spine, undoing your defenses entirely. "My wedding dress is in there," you whispered, the admission soft and vulnerable.

Rhysand turned his head, and you followed suit, the movement fluid and magnetic until your noses were brushing—a touch so light it was almost electric. He smirked, the expression dark and wicked. "Are we doing that? Keeping secrets before the big day?"

You felt your heart hammering against your ribs, a stuttering, frantic rhythm. You shrugged, your voice failing you. "I mean... we don't have to."

Rhysand's smirk widened, his eyes darkening with a promise that made your knees weak. "Okay then. We will."

Your eyes widened, a deep crimson flush staining your neck and cheeks. You opened your mouth to protest, but a loud, impatient thud from behind the door silenced you.

"You brute!" Eris's voice grumbled through the wood. "You better not touch my sister!"

Rhysand didn't even look at the door. He smirked, his eyes locked on yours as he called out, "No, Eris. I'll wait for our wedding night for that."

Eris let out a guttural groan of disgust. You swatted Rhysand's shoulder, half-mortified and half-breathless, and whispered a hasty, "Goodnight."

You didn't wait for him to respond. You squeezed back into your room, slamming the door shut and bracing your back against it to ensure Eris wouldn't storm out to throttle the High Lord.

From the other side, through the thick oak, you heard Rhysand's voice, low and smooth, a final, lingering promise: "Goodnight."

The hallway fell silent, the echo of Rhysand's footsteps fading into the distance, but the air in your room remained thick with the aftermath of the encounter. Eris sat on the edge of your bed, the fabric dipping under his weight as he watched you with a knowing, infuriatingly calm expression.

"I didn't realize you and Rhys were getting close," he remarked, his tone light, far too casual for the tension that had just filled the air.

You turned to him, your heart still racing, and snapped, "We aren't."

Eris merely smirked, rising to his feet and smoothing his tunic. "It's okay if you do, you know. You are marrying the male, after all."

You glared at him, the heat of the encounter with Rhysand still stinging your cheeks. "Don't remind me."

He laughed, a low, resonant sound that felt alien in these halls. He shrugged, his shoulders losing their typical defensive hunch. "They aren't terrible males, you know."

You whirled around, the shock of his words hitting you harder than a blow. "What? Do you not remember what they did—"

Eris held up a hand, his expression sobering instantly. "I will never forget what they did," he interrupted, his voice steel. "But they also didn't realize what was happening. They were fighting monsters, not realizing the puppets were my soldiers."

You felt the breath leave your lungs. You stared at him, trying to find the lie in his eyes, but found only a weary sort of truth.

"What I'm saying," Eris continued, his voice softer, "is that you can trust them."

The words hung in the air, mirroring the conversation you'd had with Rhysand just a day or two ago.

'People leave before I can... why should I waste my time?'

You had told the High Lord that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford, yet here was your brother—the person who knew the truth of your past better than anyone—telling you that the very men you loathed were worthy of your faith.

You nodded, a stiff, mechanical motion, your mind spinning as you processed the shift in the foundation of your world.

Eris didn't press further. He gave you a brief, bracing squeeze on the shoulder before stepping back. "Stay safe, sister."

With a swirl of embers and heat, he winnowed away, leaving nothing behind but the faint scent of smoke and the sudden, jarring cold of the room. You let out a jagged gasp, your legs finally failing you as you slid down the back of the door, leaning your forehead against the wood.

The silence of the Night Court felt different now. It didn't feel like a cage anymore; it felt like a question, and for the first time, you weren't entirely sure you hated the answer.

[hockeylover25]

Taglist Update:

Hello everybody, I am so happy to be back into the swing of writing… let’s hope I now get back into the swing of reading😭. Butttt, I see have so many new people reading my work and I am excited for that, and thank you everyone for the love.

Because of this, I have seen people also wanted to be on a Taglist (which I have tried so many times and do terrible 😭) but, I will be pinning this post at the beginning of my page so when people want to be on the Taglist of my works they can comment so I FINALLY remember…

So please comment below if you would love to apart of the Taglist and if they are certain characters or just certain series that would like to be tagged in for future works.

As always I love you all and thank you so much for for the love and support 🫶🏻🫶🏻

[hockeylover25]

Stitched Together

Eris Vanserra x BestFriend!Reader

Summary: when you get home and find your friend bleeding out on your bathroom floor, you clean him up and tension raises when he begins to heal.

Warnings: bleeding out, sexual comments, Beron (gosh I hate this man), talks of abuse, … I can’t say more because it will spoil it…

Authors note: okay… I promise I am working on the arrangement part 2, I am just so busy😭. I have a second part of this story as well which you’ll understand why when you’re finished reading buttttt this second part will probably come out before the arrangement because these two parts have been in my drafts for a while. BUTTT as always hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻

Main Masterlist:

Part II

❦ ───────── 🍁 ───────── ❦

The memory of the Autumn Court is a mosaic of flickering torchlight and the sharp, metallic tang of blood—not just from the war, but from the very beginning of your story. You never knew the touch of your mother, she perished bringing you into a world that demanded so much, leaving you to be raised by a father whose life was tethered to the whims of the Baron.

Your father was a man carved from iron and duty, the Baron's most trusted second-in-command.

You spent your childhood watching him return from the front lines, his armor scarred and his eyes weary, always smelling of soot and woodsmoke.

He treated you like a soldier in training, teaching you how to move silently through the forest and how to keep your back to the wall, even in your own home.

When the war finally claimed him, it didn't feel like a surprise, it felt like the final, inevitable closing of a chapter. With his death, the last thread connecting you to the suffocating hierarchy of the Court snapped.

You took what was yours and vanished, finding sanctuary in this hidden cabin—a place Eris, your only anchor, had kept tucked away from the prying eyes of the world.

The crisp air of the woods always clings to your clothes by the time you hike back up to that sanctuary now, but today it feels heavier, thick with the scent of pine and that same familiar, metallic tang that used to follow your father home from the front.

You push the heavy oak door open, the floorboards groaning in that familiar, welcoming way.

The cabin is exactly as you left it: the scent of dried herbs hanging from the rafters, Eris's collection of old, leather-bound books stacked precariously on the table, and the quiet, comforting dust motes dancing in the afternoon light.

You set the heavy paper bags of groceries on the counter, the clinking of glass bottles the only sound in the stillness. You are just reaching for the flour jar when you feel it, the distinct, rough brush of fur against your shins.

Smokey is weaving between your legs, his golden eyes wide and unusually urgent. He lets out a low, vibrating whine, turning his head toward the staircase before trotting a few steps in that direction, then glancing back at you.

He does it again, his tail tucked low, his movements jittery. He isn't begging for his evening feed; he is insisting.

"What is it, boy?" you murmur, kneeling down to run a hand over his thick coat. He flinches away from your touch, nudging your hand toward the stairs again with a forceful, wet nose.

Your heart does a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You live here for the solitude, for the safety away from the politics and the blood-soaked history of the Autumn Court. This cabin is supposed to be a ghost, a myth known only to Eris and you.

You stand up slowly, wiping your hands on your apron. The silence of the cabin, usually peaceful, suddenly feels like a held breath. You take a tentative step toward the staircase, your hand drifting instinctively to the small iron dagger you keep strapped to your thigh—a habit you've never quite been able to shake, even here.

Smokey lets out a soft, warning growl, his hackles rising as he presses himself against your leg, shielding you as you take the first step upward.

"Eris?" you call out, your voice sounding thin and small against the vast, dark wood of the ceiling.

There is no answer, but as you reach the landing, you hear it—the faint, unmistakable sound of someone breathing upstairs. Not the rhythmic, sleeping breath of a friend, but the sharp, jagged intake of someone trying, and failing, to stay silent.

The groan that drifts down the staircase is thin, ragged, and undeniably pained. It slices through the heavy silence of the cabin, making your pulse hammer against your throat.

"Eris?" you hiss again, the whisper-shout barely escaping your lips. You don't wait for a response, your hand tightening around the hilt of your iron dagger until your knuckles turn white.

Smokey is a blur of protective muscle in front of you. He doesn't trot anymore, he stalks, his head held low, his entire body coiled like a spring. He moves with a deliberate, rhythmic precision that mirrors the training your father once drilled into you—the instinctual need to place himself between you and the threat. He reaches the landing first, his ears pinned back, his low, vibrating growl serving as the only sound in the hallway.

You follow him, your boots barely making a sound on the creaking floorboards. You push open the door to what was once Eris's room—the space you claimed for yourself after the war, the one place where you finally allowed yourself to stop looking over your shoulder.

The room is dim, the late afternoon sun casting long, skewed shadows across the unmade bed. Everything seems undisturbed, but the air here is heavy, thick with the sharp, coppery scent of fresh blood.

You take a step forward, your eyes scanning the corners, until your gaze locks onto the door leading to the en-suite bathroom. You freeze, the breath leaving your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp.

Sprawled across the pale wood of the bathroom door is a stark, crimson smear—a bloody handprint, still wet, as if someone had reached out to steady themselves and lost their footing. It is a violent, jagged signature against the wood, a stark reminder that the sanctuary you built has been breached.

Smokey lets out a low, mournful bark, his nose pressed to the sliver of space beneath the bathroom door, his tail stiff and vibrating with tension. Your hand trembles, but you force your feet to move, the iron in your palm feeling heavier than it ever has before.

"Eris?" you breathe, your voice now barely a tremor. You step toward the bathroom, terrified of what you'll find on the other side of that stained wood.

Smokey stops dead at the threshold of the bathroom, his ears flattening against his skull. He lets out one last, low whine of distress, but he doesn't cross the line. He understands the gravity of the situation better than you do, his instincts forcing him to hold his ground at the bedroom door to keep the rest of the hounds from charging up the stairs after him.

You don't wait. You slip past him into the bathroom, your heart shattering into pieces at the sight before you.

Eris is slumped against the cold tile of the far wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. His shirt—a fine garment that looks entirely out of place in your rustic home—is ruined, soaked through with a deep, encroaching red that seems to be everywhere. He is heaving, his chest hitching with every shallow, pained breath he tries to draw, his face drained of all color.

"Eris!" you choke out, the sound half-sob, half-command.

At the sound of your voice, his head lolls back. His eyes, usually bright with mischief or amusement, are glassy and unfocused, fluttering behind heavy lids. When he finally manages to drag them upward to meet yours, his mouth twists into a painful, fragile shape.

"...You," he whimpers, his voice barely a rasp. "You... shouldn't be here."

You don't let him finish. You scramble backward just long enough to reach for the bedroom door, pulling it shut with a firm click and sliding the heavy bolt into place. You can hear the confused scratching of the other hounds against the wood on the other side, but they are contained. They are safe.

You turn back to him, dropping to your knees on the cold tile. Your hands are shaking, but you force them to be steady as you reach out, cupping his face in your palms. His skin is clammy, deathly cold against yours. He lets out a sharp, shuddering breath as your touch grounds him, his eyes fluttering shut again.

"Look at me," you insist, your voice firm, anchoring him to the present as you tilt his chin up. "Eris, look at me. Stay awake. You're going to open your eyes for me, okay? Right now."

His lashes quiver, and with a monumental effort, he forces his eyes to crack open, meeting your gaze. The agony in them is raw, but there is a flicker of relief behind the haze—a recognition that he finally made it to the only place in the world where he knew he would be found.

"Tell me what happened," you demand, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, trying to impart some warmth into his freezing skin. "Who did this to you?"

Eris tries to move away as he shakes his head, being the stubborn male he normally is.

"Eris, stop it," you plead, your voice cracking. "Let me help you, please."

He shakes his head, a weak, sluggish movement that seems to cost him every ounce of his remaining strength. He doesn't look at the wound, and he doesn't look at the blood pooling around him. Instead, he reaches up, his fingers weakly latching onto your forearms, pinning your hands against his cheeks. His grip is trembling, fading fast.

"Leave me, little fox," he whispers, the words barely audible over the sound of his own labored breathing.

You feel a hot, stinging prickle behind your eyes. Your thumbs brush away the silver tracks of tears tracing paths through the grime on his face. "I am not leaving," you say, your tone fierce, stubborn, and terrified. "I'm not going anywhere until you're safe, do you hear me?"

He lets out a shuddering, fragile breath. Slowly, he turns his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss into the center of your palm. His lips are cold, but the contact sends a jolt through you. "I'm safe... with you," he murmurs, his voice barely a ghost of a sound.

You furrow your brows, a sudden, sharp fear piercing your chest. Why is he talking like this? Why does he sound like he's already saying goodbye?

Eris's hand, slick and warm with his own blood, drifts upward. He gently brushes a stray lock of hair back from your face, his touch lingering against your temple. A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "It's... so nice... seeing you... not in my dreams."

His eyelids begin to flutter, the weight of them too much to bear. The light in his eyes is dimming, retreating into some dark, unreachable place.

"Eris?" you cry, your heart dropping into your stomach. You reach out, bracing his head in your hands, trying to force his focus back to yours. "Eris, look at me! Keep your eyes open, damn you."

His head lolls back against your hands, heavy and unresponsive. His breathing hitches once, then smooths out into a terrifying, shallow silence. He's gone—not dead, but lost to the darkness of shock and blood loss.

You freeze, your hands hovering over him, stained crimson. You look around the small, cramped bathroom, the walls suddenly feeling like they're closing in. You are miles from the court, miles from any healer, and you have no idea who is hunting him or how far behind they might be.

"What in the mother..." you whisper, your voice trembling as you stare at the man who was supposed to be your sanctuary, now broken in your arms.

You carefully lower Eris's head, his body limp and dead-weight in your arms as you finally ease him onto the cold bathroom tile. The moment his head clears the threshold, the door swings open to reveal Smokey, who has been pacing the hallway in a frenzy of anxiety.

As soon as the hound sees Eris—unconscious and stained with red—his posture shifts instantly. His whine stops, replaced by a low, guttural alertness. He doesn't need to be told the severity of the situation; he can smell the iron in the air just as clearly as you can.

"Raise, Smokey," you command, your voice tight with forced composure. "Help me."

Smokey moves with incredible grace, tucking his powerful shoulder under Eris's dead weight. You grip Eris under the arms, and together, with a strained grunt, you hoist him up. It is a grueling, awkward shuffle across the landing. Smokey takes the brunt of the burden, his muscles bunching as he keeps Eris upright, guiding him through the doorway and into the bedroom.

You maneuver him toward the bed, the mattress groaning under the sudden weight as you slide him onto it. You turn him carefully, positioning him face down as you've seen your father do for soldiers in the field—a position that keeps the airways clear and allows you to inspect the damage to his back and shoulders without jostling his lungs.

Once he is settled, the silence of the room feels deafening. Eris looks small, stripped of the bravado he usually carried when he visited you from the Court.

Smokey stands at the foot of the bed, his hackles still raised, his golden eyes darting between Eris's still form and the bedroom door, as if expecting the shadows to lunge for you both at any second.

You scramble to the side table, tearing through your supplies for clean bandages, thread, and the jar of willow-bark salve you keep for emergencies. Your hands are slick with Eris's blood, making the latch on your medical kit difficult to grip.

"Stay with him," you whisper to Smokey, your voice trembling as you turn back to the bed.

You peel back the ruined fabric of Eris's shirt, your breath hitching in your throat at the sight of the jagged, blackened gash across his shoulder blades. This wasn't a sword wound, it was something else, something jagged and cold.

The water in the basin turns a sickening shade of pink as you dab at the jagged edges of the wound. With every brush of the cloth, the reality of the situation settles deeper into your marrow. You realize, with a sharp, terrifying clarity, that you were inches away from losing him. If he hadn't made it to your doorstep, if he hadn't found the strength to hold on just long enough, Eris would be nothing more than a memory—another ghost in the woods, just like your father.

The thought hits you with the force of a physical blow. You close your eyes tightly, a jagged sob escaping your lips. You aren't just a soldier's daughter; in this moment, you are a terrified friend. You lean down, pressing your forehead against his uninjured shoulder, your tears falling hot and fast onto his skin.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, the words barely audible in the quiet room. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

He doesn't stir. He remains deathly still, his life force tethered to this room by your steady hands and the salve you've labored over. Once the final bandage is secured, you pull the quilt up to his waist, tucking it gently around him. You glance back at the bed; Smokey has already hopped up, curling himself into a protective circle around Eris's side, his nose resting against Eris's hand. He isn't going anywhere.

You stand, your legs feeling like lead. You leave the room, the heavy scent of blood and medicinal herbs clinging to your clothes. As you reach the bottom of the staircase, the rest of the hounds are there, waiting in the dim light of the living room. They don't bark, and they don't jump; they sense the gravity in your posture, their ears low and their eyes tracking you with a mournful, intuitive intelligence.

You collapse onto the couch, your energy completely spent, the adrenaline finally abandoning you. You don't even have the strength to check the door locks again or pour a drink. You simply curl up, pulling a throw blanket over your shivering frame, and almost immediately, the world goes dark.

Exhaustion swallows you whole, dragging you down into a deep, dreamless sleep, the silence of the cabin broken only by the steady, rhythmic breathing of the hounds surrounding you, keeping watch over the home you thought was hidden, but which now holds the weight of the war you tried so hard to leave behind.

❦ ───────── 🍁 ───────── ❦

The morning light filters through the dust motes, casting a pale, cold glow over the room. Eris wakes to the sensation of something rough and warm dragging across his skin. He groans, his head pounding as if it were being split open by an axe.

"Smokey, no," he rasps, his voice a gravelly shadow of his usual tone. He tries to shove the offending face away, but the movement sends a jolt of white-hot agony radiating from his shoulder down to his fingertips. He gasps, his breath hitching, and he collapses back into the mattress, blinking against the blur of the ceiling.

Where is he? This isn't the Court. The scent of drying herbs and old books replaces the stench of iron and ozone.

"Fox?" he croaks out, his throat burning. "Fox, where are you?"

Down the hall, you are just turning toward the bedroom with a tray of water and broth, your heart still heavy from the night before. You freeze when you hear his voice—a weak, confused call that sounds so desperately like the friend you thought you'd lost.

As you push the door open, you see him trying to push himself up, his face twisted in a mask of pain. The sheer shock of seeing him conscious, of seeing him move after the stillness of the night, makes your hands go numb. The plate slips through your fingers, hitting the floorboards with a violent, shattering crack. Porcelain shards spray across the room, and the bowl of broth spills in a widening puddle.

Eris flinches at the sound, his eyes widening in alarm. He tries to reach toward you, his expression shifting from his own pain to pure, frantic concern for you. "Fox? Are you okay? Didy you—"

He doesn't finish the sentence. You are already across the room, ignoring the broken ceramic under your boots, and you collapse onto your knees beside the bed. You don't care about the mess; you don't care about anything except the fact that his eyes are open.

You reach out, your hands cupping his face, his skin now warmer than it was the night before. You lean in close, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw as you search his gaze for the strength he usually carries.

"Are you okay?" he whispers again, his voice trembling as he reaches up, his shaky fingers finding your wrists. "Did the glass get you? Did you get hurt?

You let out a wet, shaky laugh that's half-sob, shaking your head so hard your hair falls into your eyes. "I'm fine," you breathe, leaning your forehead against his. "I'm safe. You're the one who needs to be worried about. Don't you ever try to move like that again, you idiot."

Eris offers a faint, lopsided smile, his eyes sparkling despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "You were worried about me," he whispers, a touch of his characteristic smugness threading through the words.

You roll your eyes, though the motion is dampened by the sheen of tears still clinging to your lashes. "Eris," you huff, your voice catching as the playfulness in his tone reminds you of everything he's risked.

As he watches you, the light in his expression shifts. He sees the way your eyes sadden, the way the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally drags your shoulders down. With a soft, pained groan, he carefully shifts his body to turn toward you. He reaches out, his hand sliding to the back of your neck to cradle you gently, drawing you closer. The dam breaks, and you finally let the tears fall, a soft, broken sound escaping you as you tuck your head against him.

His eyes widen, panic momentarily clouding his gaze at the sight of you unravelling. He doesn't hesitate; he tugs gently at your arm, pulling you upward until you're forced to climb onto the bed beside him. He wraps his good arm around you, holding you firm against his side, his voice dropping to a soothing, urgent murmur. "What, my fox? What is wrong? Tell me."

You lean back just enough to look at him, your voice barely a ragged whisper. "I thought I lost you, Eris. I thought that was it."

Eris nods slowly, his gaze softening until it's almost painful to look at. "I'm okay," he promises, his voice low and grounding. "I'm alive. I'm right here."

You nod, but the reassurance only makes the sobs come harder, the relief and the fear tangling together in your chest. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he takes your hand, his fingers warm against yours, and guides it firmly onto his chest. He presses your palm flat against his heart, letting you feel the steady, rhythmic thump-thump beneath the fabric of his shirt.

He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he holds your hand against that steady beat. "You saved me," he whispers, his voice thick with a raw, uncharacteristic vulnerability. "Thank you."

You stay curled against him for what feels like an eternity, the silence of the cabin wrapping around you both like a heavy shroud. Your palm stays pressed to the steady, rhythmic drum of his heart, a cadence that was almost silenced yesterday. With every slow, deliberate rub of his hand against your back, the terror that had been coiled in your stomach begins to loosen, replaced by a dull, aching ache of relief.

He leans down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your forehead. When he pulls back just an inch, you look up into his eyes, searching for the truth.

"What happened, Eris?" you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Eris freezes. The warmth in his expression shifts, a shadow passing behind his eyes as he shakes his head slowly. He nudges the tip of his nose against yours—a gesture of affection that used to make you smile, but now just feels like a distraction. "It doesn't matter," he murmurs against your skin.

You let out an unconvincing, dry laugh, furrowing your brows. "I think it does," you counter, pulling back slightly to give him a sharp look. "It matters quite a bit when you're bleeding out on my bathroom floor."

Eris winces, the effort of the conversation and the memory of the struggle clearly taking its toll. He shifts, and a sharp groan of pain escapes him, his entire body tensing as the movement pulls at the wounds on his back. He lets out a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours with a mix of plea and exhaustion. "Can I tell you... after I heal?"

You stare at him, wanting to demand the truth right now, wanting to know exactly what kind of monster could do this to someone as capable as Eris. But seeing the tremor in his hands and the way his breath hitches, you know you're right—he's in no condition to relive it yet.

You give a slow, reluctant nod and begin to shift away from him, intending to slide off the mattress.

Eris immediately lets out a low, needy whine, his fingers curling into your shirt to keep you close.

You gently untangle his fingers, offering him a small, reassuring smile as you reach for his shoulder. "I'm not leaving, you dramatic fool," you whisper softly. "I'm just checking your back to make sure the stitches haven't pulled."

❦ ───────── 🍁 ───────── ❦

The evening light has deepened into a bruised purple, casting long, somber shadows across the bedroom. With Eris leaning heavily on your shoulder—his weight a constant, grounding reminder that he is still breathing—you managed to get him down the stairs. You settled him onto the couch, surrounding him with cushions, and finally, for the first time in twenty-four hours, felt the tension in your own muscles begin to fray at the edges.

"Stay," you had commanded softly, and he had nodded, too exhausted to argue.

You turn back toward the stairs, your intention to finally wash the remnants of this nightmare from your skin. But as you step into the bathroom, the breath catches in your throat.

The light catches the dark, crusty stains on the floorboards where he had collapsed. It is a stark, gruesome map of his struggle—a vivid reminder of exactly how close he had come to slipping away. The sight hits you with a fresh wave of vertigo, your stomach turning. You raise a trembling hand to your face, pressing your palm against your mouth to stifle a whimper.

"Eris is alive," you whisper to the empty room, your voice cracked and desperate. "He is downstairs. He is safe."

You repeat the words like a mantra, trying to override the image of his limp, blood-soaked body. It takes several deep, shaky breaths to force your heart rate to slow. You don't want the smell of dried blood to linger in the place where you sleep; you need to purge the evidence of the violence that breached your sanctuary.

You spend the next hour in a trance of labor, scrubbing the floorboards until your knuckles are raw and the wood is clean. Only when the last of the crimson stains has vanished do you finally turn on the shower.

The hot water feels like a benediction against your skin. You stand under the spray for a long time, watching the water swirl down the drain, clear and untainted. You wash away the grime, the herbs, and the lingering copper scent of his blood, trying to wash away the fear, too. But as you step out and wrap a towel around yourself, you know that the cabin feels different now. The barrier between your quiet, hidden life and the chaos of the Court has been shattered.

You dry off, your movements slow and deliberate, and prepare to go back downstairs to the man who brought the war to your doorstep—but who you would fight a thousand wars to protect.

You freeze in the doorway, your heart leaping into your throat. There he is, moving about your kitchen as if he hadn't been fighting for his life on your bathroom floor only hours ago. "Eris!" you yell, the sharp sound echoing against the wood. "What in the hell do you think you're doing? Get back on the couch!"

He turns slowly, his movements cautious but deliberate. That familiar, infuriatingly charming smile tugs at his lips. His gaze drops, lingering pointedly on the oversized shirt you're wearing—one of his old ones that you've claimed as sleepwear. The heat flares in your cheeks instantly, turning your skin a deep shade of crimson.

He doesn't even have the decency to look guilty; he just turns back to the stove, humming a low, steady tune.

You march over to the kitchen island, ready to give him the most thorough scolding of his life. "I am serious, Eris. You're supposed to be recovering, not playing chef. You are bleeding internally, probably, and—"

He turns to face you, a look of faux-innocent concentration on his face. He holds up a finger coated in a rich, dark sauce. Just as you draw breath to continue your lecture, he leans in and deftly presses the finger to your lips, sliding it into your mouth.

Your protest dies in your throat, replaced by a low, involuntary moan. The sauce is incredible—savory, earthy, and perfectly spiced. Your eyes flutter shut for a split second, caught off guard by both the flavor and his audacity.

He pulls back, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he watches your reaction. "Do you just need to suck on something to shut you up, little fox?" he whispers, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that always gets under your skin.

"You—!" You smack his shoulder, frustrated by how easily he can derail you.

He winces immediately, his face paling, and the playful spark in his eyes vanishes as he grips his side. Your anger evaporates instantly, replaced by sheer panic. "Oh my god, Eris, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to—I wasn't thinking—"

He lets out a soft, wheezing laugh, his hand relaxing. "I'm messing with you, love," he whispers, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

You roll your eyes, though your hands are still trembling as you inspect his shoulder to ensure you didn't do any real damage. "That is not funny, Eris. Not even a little bit."

He laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that fills the cabin, chasing away some of the lingering shadows. "I thought it was," he teases, turning back to the stove. "And besides, it worked, didn't it? You're quiet."

"You are nothing but trouble," you grumble, shaking your head as you cross your arms over your chest. "Stubborn, reckless, and absolutely impossible to keep under house arrest."

Eris just offers you that infuriatingly smug smirk again, the one that makes your heart stutter even when you're annoyed with him. He finishes plating the spaghetti, his movements careful and measured to avoid straining his back. He hands you your plate with a wink before slowly, painfully making his way to the dining table.

You take your seat, resting your chin on your hand as you watch him. Even in his weakened state, there's an elegance to the way he moves—a remnant of the Court nobility he tries so hard to pretend he's left behind. You watch the way the candlelight catches the hollows of his cheeks and the slow, deliberate way he lifts his fork. It's hard to reconcile the man sitting here eating pasta with the broken, bleeding stranger you pulled off your bathroom floor.

He doesn't look up, his fork pausing mid-air as a faint, knowing grin touches his lips. "I'm flattered that you can't stop staring at me, little fox," he murmurs, his voice smooth and teasing. "But I'm afraid you'll find the view much more appetizing if you actually eat. Your food is going to get cold."

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks again, caught red-handed. You let out a soft, exasperated huff, shaking your head to clear the heaviness from your mind.

"Just eat, Eris," you mutter, though your tone lacks any real bite.

You pick up your own fork, the simple task of dinner feeling like an monumental victory against everything that happened yesterday. You start to eat, the silence between you no longer heavy with dread, but settling into a familiar, quiet companionship. For now, the war is outside, the danger is at bay, and the only thing that matters is the two of you in this hidden, mountain-bound world.

When dinner was finished, the clatter of the dishes is the only sound in the kitchen, a domestic rhythm that feels almost surreal against the backdrop of the last twenty-four hours. You set the last plate in the drying rack and turn off the faucet. The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the soft scrape of Eris's chair as he shifts.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. It's not the playful tone from earlier; it's raw, stripped of its edge.

You turn around, drying your hands on a towel, and he speaks again, his voice lower. "I'm sorry for worrying you."

Your irritation, which had been your armor all evening, crumbles. Your eyes soften, and you drift toward him without realizing your feet are moving. He watches you approach, then shifts his weight, opening his legs to give you space to stand between them. You step into that space, your knees brushing against his thighs, and you look down at him.

"I always worry about you, Eris," you whisper, the admission feeling like a confession.

He looks up at you, his brow furrowed in genuine surprise. "You do?"

You let out a soft, self-deprecating scoff. "I worry all the time. Especially when I know you aren't under the Baron's protection in Autumn anymore. Every time you leave, all I think about is never seeing you again. Because if something happened... no one would even tell me. If you just... didn't come back, I'd be left here, waiting for a ghost."

Eris stands up, moving with a wince of pain, but he doesn't pull away. He cups your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch.

"They would," he promises, his voice firm.

You tilt your head, confused. "Who would tell me?"

Eris smiles, a slow, knowing expression. "The Night Court. They know everything about you, my little fox." He chuckles, though it's a quiet sound. "They've always wondered why I smell of something sweet—like pine needles and home—every time I show up for meetings. I couldn't help it. The scent of your cabin always lingers on my coat, no matter how hard I try to scrub it off."

A bubble of genuine, startled laughter escapes you, turning into a light, airy giggle. The idea of the most powerful, intimidating figures in the world gossiping about the scent Eris brings back from his secret visits is absurd, and it finally breaks the remaining tension in your chest.

Eris smiles, his eyes lighting up as he watches you laugh, his hand still warm against your skin. "You think that's funny?" he murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I've had to invent a dozen excuses for the Court just to keep them from sniffing out where I hide."

"I believe it's very funny, princely," you tease, the nickname slipping out with a playful smirk.

Eris tilts his head back, letting out a genuine, throaty laugh that seems to vibrate right through your chest. As he leans back down, the playfulness in his gaze shifts into something far more intense, something that makes your skin hum. Your noses nudge, a familiar, grounding contact, and his voice drops to a ragged, desperate whisper. "I never want to leave this... I never want to leave you."

You pause, your pulse quickening, and instinctively lick your lips. You see his gaze dart down to the movement, his pupils dilating. You lean in just a fraction, your voice barely a breath. "Then don't."

For a second, his expression fractures, a flash of agony crossing his features—not from his wounds, but from something deeper, something heavy with the weight of the life he leads beyond these walls. He closes his eyes, his chest hitching as he whispers, "One day."

The weight of those two words hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. You nod, forcing yourself to break the spell before it tears you both apart. You glance toward the living room, where the hounds are watching you with their watchful, golden eyes, and you take a steadying breath.

"I need to change your bandages," you say, your voice firm, anchoring yourself back in the reality of his recovery. "And get you to bed. You've done enough for one night."

You turn on your heel and start for the stairs, your heart hammering against your ribs. You don't see the way he reaches out toward you, his fingers curling in the empty air where you stood just a moment ago, a silent, desperate urge to pull you back into his orbit.

He stands there for a beat, his hand still suspended in the space you vacated, his expression raw with a longing he rarely lets you see. He takes a long, ragged breath, composing himself, and then he starts to follow you up the stairs, the slow, heavy thud of his boots echoing against your own.

❦ ───────── 🍁 ───────── ❦

Over the next couple of days, Eris heals slowly but also in a way that makes you confused over his powers.

But today, the silence in the room is heavy, save for the rhythmic clicking of the hounds' claws on the floorboards downstairs. You stand in the doorway, unnoticed for a heartbeat, watching Eris. He is standing before the tall, antique mirror you kept in the corner, his shirt discarded on the floor.

He isn't looking at his face. He is twisted slightly, peering over his shoulder at the pale, jagged map of scars that have replaced the angry, weeping wounds of a few days ago. The skin, once torn and ruined, has knitted itself back together with his innate healing—but the cost is permanently written on his flesh. He lets out a sharp, cynical scoff, a sound devoid of any humor, as he traces the longest, deepest ridge of white tissue near his shoulder blade. It is a grim, familiar tally—the work of a hand he once looked up to, a hand that turned into a weapon against him.

Just as he lets his shirt fall from his hands to hide the canvas of his past, he hears you move. He begins to turn, but you are already there. You don't hesitate, you place your hands against his chest, firm and steady, and push.

Eris stumbles, the surprise flashing in his amber eyes as he falls back onto the mattress. The bedsprings groan under his weight. Before he can recover his princely composure, you are there, climbing onto the edge of the bed and hovering over him. You don't let him look away. You reach out, your fingers hovering over the newly healed scars on his back, and your voice is a jagged whisper that cuts through the quiet.

"What happened, Eris?" you ask, your eyes burning into his. "I cleaned those wounds. I stitched you up. I know the shape of that damage—it wasn't a sword, and it wasn't a soldier's work. You were being hunted... by something."

Eris goes deathly still beneath you, his breath hitching. He looks up at you, his gaze searching yours, looking for a way to deflect, a way to spin a lie that will keep you safe. But he sees the steel in your expression, the stubborn refusal to be kept in the dark any longer. He knows you recognize the pattern; you grew up in the shadow of the Court, you know exactly how his father operates when he's displeased.

"Tell me," you insist, your hand trembling slightly as you trace the edge of a scar. "You said 'when you're healed' we would talk about it. Well, that day is today. Why were you so terrified he would find me? Why did you come here to bleed out, of all places?"

Eris looks at you, his throat bobbing as he swallows, the mask he usually wears for the rest of the world finally shattering. He reaches up, his hand catching yours, his fingers cold against your skin.

"Because he owns me, fox," he rasps, his voice breaking. "And when he realizes I've defied him—when he realizes I chose to hide here, in the home of the one person he's always wanted me to destroy—he won't stop until he breaks us both. By saving me, you didn't just heal my wounds. You've marked yourself as his enemy. And that... that was the one thing I promised myself I would never let happen to you."

You shake your head, the confusion swirling into a cold, sickening dread. "What do you mean, Eris?" you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sudden rush of blood in your ears. "Why would he want me destroyed? I'm just... I'm just a ghost from your past. I have nothing left for him to take."

Eris lets out a harsh, jagged groan, the frustration boiling over. He pushes himself up from the bed, his movements stiff and pained, and begins to pace the narrow room. "You don't understand how his mind works," he snaps, his voice laced with a bitterness that makes you flinch. "I never wanted him to know where you were. I never wanted him to know what you are to me—because the moment he figures out that I have something to lose, he won't just come for me. He'll come for the thing I value most."

You scramble to your feet, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Eris, stop!" you demand, taking a step toward him. "Stop pacing and look at me!"

He doesn't stop. He continues to stalk the length of the room, his eyes wild and unfocused. "He'll know my weakness," he rants, his voice rising in panic. "He'll realize that the easiest way to break me isn't by scarring my back—it's by hurting you. He'll take you, he'll use you, and I... I can't let him hurt you. I'd rather be dead on your floor than be the reason you suffer."

He abruptly stops, his chest heaving as he spins toward you. In three strides, he crosses the distance, his hands finding your face and cupping your cheeks with an intensity that borders on desperation. He looks into your eyes, his own shimmering with a fierce, terrifying protectiveness.

"I won't let him," he vows, his voice a low, gravelly promise that shakes your very core. "I swear it on my life, fox. I will burn the world down before I let him lay a single finger on you."

You reach up, wrapping your fingers over his, gripping his wrists to keep him anchored to you. You stare into his eyes, searching for the truth beneath the chaos of his fear.

"Who, Eris?" you whisper, your voice trembling but firm. "Who is he? Who am I supposed to be afraid of?"

Eris freezes. The name seems to hang in the air between you, heavy and tainted, like smoke after a fire. He lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his shoulders slumping as the fight finally drains out of him.

"Beron," he says, the name barely more than a jagged breath.

The word hits you like a physical blow. You recoil slightly, your eyes widening in sudden, sharp clarity. "Your father," you whisper, the shock freezing the blood in your veins. You had heard the rumors, the stories that drifted even into your quiet corner of the world about the cruelty of the Autumn High Lord, but hearing Eris speak it—seeing the way he flinched at the mere mention—brought the horror into your living room.

Eris doesn't say anything else. He just looks at you, his amber eyes guarded and full of a weary, ancient pain, waiting for you to pull away, waiting for you to realize exactly what kind of monster he is tied to.

But you don't pull away. Instead, you move forward, closing the distance he tried so hard to maintain. You wrap your arms around him, pulling him into a tight, fierce hug, burying your face against his chest. You feel the tension in his frame, the way he holds his breath as if he's expecting you to push him away, to tell him that his father's darkness is too much for you to bear.

"Oh, Eris..." you whisper, your voice thick with tears. You hold him tighter, feeling the steady thrum of his heart—the same heart you had listened to, desperate for a sign of life, only days ago. "I am so sorry. I am so, so sorry."

You feel him let out a broken, shaky breath, and slowly, hesitantly, his arms come up to wrap around you, anchoring himself to you as if you are the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He hides his face in the crook of your neck, his grip tightening as he finally, for the first time in his life, lets the weight of his reality rest on someone else's shoulders.

The soft press of his lips against the sensitive skin of your neck sends a jolt through you that has nothing to do with the trauma of the last few days and everything to do with a sudden, overwhelming clarity. It is as if a heavy, rusted bolt has finally slid back, opening a door in your mind you hadn't realized was locked.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as the pieces of a thousand half-memories click into place—the way his eyes always held that specific shade of amber, the way he seemed to know the scent of your home before you even spoke of it, the way he has been drawn to you across years and borders, regardless of the danger.

Slowly, you lean back, your hands sliding from his shoulders to frame his face. You search his eyes, not for the soldier or the prince, but for the boy you once knew in a lifetime that feels both a heartbeat away and an eternity ago.

"Oh my gods..." you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of the revelation. "It's you."

Eris doesn't try to pull away or hide behind his usual mask of cynicism. He holds your gaze with a raw, piercing intensity, his throat moving as he swallows. A slow, sad, beautiful smile touches his lips as he nods. He reaches up, leaning in until your foreheads rest against each other, the proximity grounding you both in the only truth that matters in this chaotic world.

"It's me," he breathes, his voice thick with the same realization. "It's always been me, fox."

The realization crashes over you, not like a storm, but like a tide—inevitable, rising, and impossible to turn back.

The pieces that had been scattered for so long suddenly lock together with a resonance that vibrates in your very marrow. The protective instinct that led you to pull him from the brink, the magnetic pull that always brought him back to this cabin, the way his heartbeat felt like the only anchor in your world—it all makes sense now.

Eris Vanserra. The boy you grew up with, the soldier who survived a tyrant's wrath, the man who would burn the world down to keep you from harm. Your best friend.

Your mate.

The air in the room seems to shift, growing thick and electric. You look at him—really look at him—and see the depth of the bond that has been quietly humming between you for years, hidden beneath the layers of friendship, secrecy, and survival. It wasn't just shared history or proximity; it was the tether of your souls, pulling you together despite the distance, despite his father, despite everything.

Eris seems to feel the shift, too. His eyes darken, the amber irises swirling with a sudden, sharp recognition as he watches your face. He doesn't move, afraid that even a breath might break the fragile, newfound clarity.

"You know," he whispers, the words barely audible, yet they fill the entire room with a weight that leaves you breathless.

You can't even speak, you just nod, the tears finally spilling over as the sheer gravity of it settles in. The fear of his father is still there, lingering in the shadows of the cabin, but it is eclipsed by the terrifying, beautiful certainty of the bond between you. You realize that this is why he was so desperate to keep you away, and why he came here when he had nowhere else to go—because in a world of monsters and cruelty, you are the only place in the universe where he was ever meant to be.

You lean into him, closing the final inch between your foreheads, and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down until he is holding you with everything he has.

"My mate," you breathe into his skin, the truth of it blooming in your chest, hot and bright.

Eris lets out a sound that is half-sob, half-laugh, and buries his face against your shoulder. He holds you as if you are the only thing in the world that is real, his grip tight, possessive, and broken all at once. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs against your neck, his voice trembling. "I tried to fight it. I tried to stay away so I wouldn't drag you into this. But I couldn't. I could never stay away from you."

You hold him back, feeling the hum of his magic finally aligning with your own, and for the first time since he collapsed on your floor, the world outside ceases to exist. There is only him. There is only this. And now, there is no going back.

You cup his cheeks, his skin warm beneath your fingertips, and you pull him down to you. The kiss starts soft, a tentative exploration of this new, undeniable truth, but it quickly deepens, fueled by everything you've both been holding back. You pour every ounce of your devotion, your fear, and your love into it.

Eris lets out a low, ragged moan, his hands tangling in your hair and pulling you flush against his chest, as if he's trying to merge your two souls into one. He kisses you back with a desperate, hungry intensity, his movements echoing the promise of a lifetime spent waiting for this moment.

When you finally pull away, needing air, Eris immediately follows your lips, chasing the contact with a soft, lingering pressure. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath hitching.

"I'm never leaving again," he whispers, his voice thick with a fierce, iron-clad vow. "I'm never leaving you. Damn the Court and damn my father—all I need is you. That's all I've ever needed."

You shake your head slowly, a sad smile touching your lips as you gently trace the line of his jaw. "You can't do that, Eris, and you know it. If you abandon your position, Beron would hunt you to the ends of the earth. He'd force you back, and that would mean losing you forever."

Eris goes still, his gaze dropping to the floor. The shadow of his father looms large, even here in the sanctuary of your cabin. He looks pained, his knuckles white where they grip your waist.

"One day, my fox," he says, his voice a jagged promise. "I will find a way to break his hold. One day, we can be together—truly, forever, without looking over our shoulders."

You reach up, pressing your palm to his heart, feeling the beat that belongs to you. "This is enough for now, Eris," you whisper. "We have today. And we have here."

He looks up at you, the amber of his eyes softened by a profound, aching love. He leans in once more, pressing a final, gentle kiss to your lips.

As you hold him, you focus entirely on the warmth of his skin and the steady, rhythmic promise of his heartbeat. You feel the heavy, jagged thoughts of the Court, and the danger outside beginning to fray and dissolve. With every kiss, you push away the fear, trading the darkness of the past for the quiet, fierce serenity of being with your mate, right here, where you both finally belong.

[hockeylover25]

Court Secrets*

Eris Vanserra x Mate!Reader

Summary: when you and your brother, Rhysand, go to an Autumn Court Party, you see your mate watching you from afar. What you believe will be a normal annoying party, turns out to be a life changing moment with Eris

Warnings: Beron, showing of scars (talks of whips), glamour or, fluff, angst, smut, p in v, oral (f receiving), desk sex, ending in a cliff hanger… (kinda…)

Authors note: omg stop, I found this in my drafts document and I wrote it during my slump (well not slump… but kinda) and now I finally have good time management to edit (which I did a lot because it was originally 4000 something words… now it’s over 7300… so enjoy 😭) and post it! As always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻.

P.S- idk if I will be able to post much this week like I have been because I work every single day this week… and I also need to find time to do my school work… wish me luck😭🤞

Main Masterlist:

✦･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✨ :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✦

The oppressive, fiery heat of the Autumn Court ballroom does nothing to warm the icy mask you wear.

Tonight, you are not just yourself, you are the cruel, untouchable princess of the Night Court, standing beside Rhysand as he plays the part of the ruthless High Lord of the Hewn City.

The court thinks you are cold, calculating, and entirely out of reach.

But beneath the dark glamour and the heavy velvet of your dress, your heart is hammering wildly.

Across the glittering, crowded room stands Eris Vanserra. He is positioned right next to his poor excuse of a father, Beron, playing the dutiful heir.

But his amber eyes are locked entirely on you.

The gaze he is throwing your way is intense, heavy with a secret possessiveness that threatens to shatter your composure.

Only Eris and your immediate family know the truth, you are his hidden mate.

And looking at you like that, right in the middle of a hostile court, is exactly how Eris loves to make sure you remember it.

Inside, you are completely freaking out.

"Are you blushing, sister?"

Rhysand's smooth, low whisper cuts through the music as he leans down toward your ear. His sharp violet eyes have missed nothing.

Panicking slightly, you violently tear your eyes away from Eris, staring blindly into the crowd instead. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Eris catch the movement, a smug, wicked smirk spreading across his handsome face the exact moment you look away.

You glare up at your brother, your jaw tight.

"Shut up," you mutter.

Rhysand chuckles softly, the sound low in his throat. But the amusement vanishes from his face the moment you slam your mental shields into place, completely shutting your line to him.

Rhys sighs, leaning in again so only you can hear. "Not only are you not showing your glamour to me, but you shut your line."

You ignore him, keeping your eyes trained rigidly forward, refusing to look back toward the Autumn flames. Rhysand, however, doesn't drop it. He glances across the ballroom, tracking your mate.

From his spot across the floor, Eris is no longer smirking, his brow is slightly furrowed, staring over at you in genuine concern after witnessing your sudden tension.

Rhysand leans back down to your ear. "You should talk to your mate."

A low growl ripples in your throat. You snap your head toward him, keeping your voice a lethal, hushed hiss. "Would you shut up? Do you want people to hear you?"

Rhysand only smirks, entirely unfazed by your temper. With an amused glint in his eyes, he deliberately steps back. The movement forces your arm to drop from his side, leaving you standing alone in the crowd.

"I'll be back with drinks," he says smoothly.

"Rhysand!" you snarl under your breath, but your brother keeps right on walking. He disappears into the throng of fae, stopping a few paces away to speak with a lord about official High Lord business. You let out a heavy, defeated sigh, crossing your arms.

"You look like you could use this."

The smooth, velvety voice comes from right beside you. You turn, and there is Eris. He is holding out a crystal glass filled with an amber liquid, his expression a perfect blend of courtly politeness and secret arrogance.

You roll your eyes dramatically, making him let out a soft, low chuckle.

You reach out and take the glass from his hand, keeping your voice cool and dangerous for any prying ears. "Can I trust you didn't poison it?"

Eris steps just a fraction closer, his smoky, autumn scent enveloping you completely. He leans down, a wicked smirk playing on his lips.

"Never trust me, darling."

You finally let your gaze rise, looking up into his amber eyes without any masks, just letting him see you.

The sharp, mocking edges of his persona melt away for a single, fleeting second, and a soft, breathtaking smile touches his lips.

"Hello," he whispers.

You don't say a single word. Keeping your expression completely unreadable, you slowly reach back, setting the untouched drink down on a small table behind you.

Without breaking eye contact, you turn back around to face the ballroom, shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and quietly watch everyone dance.

The heavy, suffocating mask of the Hewn City princess feels tight on your face, but you force your expression to remain cold and detached.

Inside, your heart is hammering against your ribs.

The sharp, smoky scent of autumn and cedar wraps around you, a constant reminder of how dangerously close Eris is standing.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him shift, his broad shoulders subtly blocking you from the watchful gaze of his father across the ballroom.

The arrogant, mocking smirk he usually wears for the court softens into a private, knowing look meant only for you.

"Silent tonight, darling?" Eris murmurs, his voice a low, smooth purr that sends a sharp shiver down your spine. "And here I thought you came to the Autumn Court to make an impression."

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, watching a pair of High Fae lords spin past, though every nerve ending is hyper-focused on the heat radiating from him.

"I am making an impression," you reply, your voice a cool, dangerous whisper that perfectly matches the ruthless persona you and Rhysand planned. "I'm showing your court that the Night Court has no interest in your pleasantries."

Eris lets out a quiet, dark chuckle, stepping a fraction of an inch closer—just enough for the fabric of his embroidered tunic to brush against the silk of your dress.

"A convincing performance," he whispers, his amber eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and fierce possessiveness. "But I know how fast your heart is beating right now. You can fool them, and you can even shut out your brother... but you can't hide from me."

You don't say a word after that. You don't even know what to say to him or do, if you did do something it would be to slap him in front of everyone just to bring him close and kiss him like you've always wanted to.

Eris sighs after a minute of silence and leans down, letting his warm breath hit your ear, making you shiver slightly.

"May I have this dance?" he whispers, his voice smooth and entirely too close.

You turn your head toward him, a sudden blush creeping up your neck despite the cold mask you're supposed to be wearing.

"Are you serious?" you whisper-shout, casting a quick glance around to make sure no one is paying attention to you.

Eris leans back, putting on a perfectly offended expression. He nods stubbornly. "I would like to dance with my mate."

You roll your eyes, keeping your voice low and tight. "Eris, we can't."

He just rolls his eyes right back at you, mimicking your tone in a dramatic whisper. "I know, I know. No one can know we are mates, and blah blah blah."

You quickly slap his arm to cut him off. He shuts up instantly, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

Then, his expression softens, returning to his normal tone. "Is it so bad that I want to dance with the most beautiful female in the room?"

You fight down another blush, looking away from his piercing stare. "You will get nowhere with flattery," you whisper.

Eris let out a quiet scoff. "Oh darling, do you not see yourself?"

You glance back over and catch his amber eyes roaming down your body, taking you in completely.

He leans down again, his voice dropping into a low, intense register. "I just wish you would drop that glamour of yours so I could see your true self."

Your heart stops. You turn to him slightly, your breath catching in your throat. "How did you know I..."

Eris smirks, reaching out and bringing his hand up, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair back from your face. "I'm not stupid, darling."

You freeze completely. You don't even know what to say to him. Your mind races as panic and shock fight for dominance, because you truly believed he couldn't see past the glamour. You believed he only saw the plain, unassuming disguise you wore for the world—not your true Illyrian self.

He wasn't supposed to know about your dark black hair shot through with midnight purple, your clear ocean-blue eyes, or the most precious, fiercely guarded thing you possessed, your Illyrian wings, hidden away by tendrils of Night Court magic.

Eris slowly drops his hand from playing with the ends of what everyone else saw as plain brown hair. His amber eyes melt into something entirely genuine, stripping away the arrogant heir of Autumn.

"Dance with me," he whispers.

You just stare at him, frozen, and he steps a fraction closer, his voice dropping even lower.

"Please."

The word catches you completely off guard. You are entirely taken aback, because Eris Vanserra does not ask. He does not beg. He is a male who simply takes whatever he wants from the world. Hearing that quiet, vulnerable request from him shatters the last of your resistance.

So, before your mind can talk you out of it, you place your hand in his offered palm. Eris closes his fingers securely around yours, a spark of pure warmth rushing through the bond, and he leads you straight out onto the dance floor the exact minute a new song begins.

The moment Eris's large, warm hand slides firmly onto your waist, a sharp gasp escapes your lips. A jolt of pure, electric fire shoots straight through the mating bond, hitting you so hard your knees almost buckle.

It is the very first time you have ever felt your mate touching you like this, so openly, deliberately, and with a raw intensity that burns right through your dress.

Eris reacts instantly to your gasp. He leans down, his head burying in the crook of your neck, and presses a soft, searing kiss against your skin.

"Fuck," he whispers, his voice thick and rough against your throat. "I've never felt like this before."

You can't even find your voice to reply. Your breath catches entirely, not just from the intoxicating heat of his lips, but because your eyes dart past his shoulder.

There, standing near the edge of the ballroom, is Rhysand. Your brother is staring right at the two of you, his violet eyes wide with absolute shock.

He freezes, holding two drink glasses, completely stunned as he watches the notorious heir of Autumn pull his sister flush against his chest.

Before Rhysand can even think to intervene, Eris takes total control, letting the music sweep you both into the crowd. He locks his gaze onto yours, his amber eyes burning with a fierce, possessive hunger.

Another gasp tears from your throat as the dance truly begins. Eris releases your waist for a fraction of a second, only to slide his free hand slowly, deliberately up the curve of your hip.

His palm traces the line of your waist, moving up over your stomach, sending a wave of goosebumps breaking across your skin.

His touch travels all the way to your shoulder, his fingers lingering there for a heartbeat before softly tracing down the bare skin of your arm.

Your entire body trembles under his touch. Finally, his fingers slide down to your wrist, slipping securely into your hand.

He laces his fingers with yours, gripping you tightly as he spins you into the center of the floor, taking the lead and moving with a lethal, effortless grace that shuts out the rest of the world completely.

As you two move together across the crowded floor, you can't keep your eyes off of him. Every sharp line of his face, the intense heat of his gaze—it consumes you entirely.

Eris is doing the exact same, his amber eyes burning as they roam everywhere on your body, drinking you in as if he's trying to memorize the exact feel of you in his arms.

He guides you through a seamless turn, his chest brushing against yours, and leans down. "I never thought you would let me this close," he whispers, his voice a low, rough melody meant only for you. "I've dreamed of this moment."

A breathy, breathless chuckle escapes your lips, the tension breaking just enough for your playful side to show. "You've dreamed of holding my hand, princely?" you whisper back, arching an eyebrow.

Eris smirks softly, a wicked, beautiful glint flashing in his eyes. He tightens his grip on your hand, pulling you just a fraction closer as the music swells. "I've dreamed of doing everything with you, darling."

The sheer honesty in his voice makes your heart skip a beat. You turn your head slightly, looking directly into his eyes, completely captivated.

As the space between you seems to shrink, his gaze suddenly drops down to your lips, heavy with desire.

Your own eyes instinctively mimic his, dropping to trace the curve of his mouth, the urge to feel his lips against yours suddenly overwhelming.

Sensing the shift, Eris leans closer, his breath fanning over your face as he tilts his head down.

Realization snaps through you—you are in the middle of the Autumn Court ballroom, surrounded by enemies and a stunned brother.

And with your mate, you all decided would be the right choice to never tell anyone about.

Panic flaring, you quickly turn your head back around, breaking the spell before his lips can touch yours.

Eris lets out a quiet, understanding breath. He nods, entirely respectful of your boundaries despite the fierce hunger in his eyes, and simply keeps dancing, spinning you flawlessly through the music as if nothing had happened.

As you dance, you realize just how good your mate is at dancing. Every movement is fluid, precise, and effortlessly commanding.

You tilt your head up slightly, a curious thought slipping past your lips before you can stop it. "How come when I watch you dance, you never seem this confident?" you whisper.

Eris's smirk appears instantly, his eyes flashing with sudden, wicked delight. "You watch me dance?" he whispers back, leaning in to catch your reaction.

You groan softly at his teasing, your cheeks warming up all over again.

He lets out a quiet, genuine laugh at your frustration, the sound warm against your skin, but then his smile fades into something a bit more bittersweet.

"It's hard sometimes," he says softly.

You furrow your eyebrows, looking up at him as he guides you through another step. "What's hard?" you whisper.

Eris locks his amber eyes directly onto yours, his voice dropping into a low, vulnerable register that pierces straight through your defenses. "It's hard when you realize that what you've imagined in your head isn't really there... in your arms."

You pause for a fraction of a second, your heart squeezing painfully before you force your feet to keep up with his perfect steps. "What have you imagined?" you ask softly.

Eris shrugs, his gaze drifting away from you for a brief moment as he looks out into the crowded ballroom. "This," he whispers, his voice thick with a quiet longing. "Dancing with you."

A soft gasp tears from your throat, the sheer weight of his confession leaving you completely breathless.

Suddenly, Eris stops. Right there in the middle of the music, his movements halt, and he looks down at you with an intense, sudden determination.

"Come with me," he whispers.

Before you can even think to reply, you try to turn, your eyes instinctively darting toward the edge of the room to find Rhysand.

But Eris doesn't give you the chance to hesitate or pull away.

He tightens his fingers securely around yours and pulls you off the dance floor, leading you quickly through the swirling crowd and toward the shadows of the ballroom exits.

You walk down a long, dark hallway, the muffled music of the ballroom fading into a dull hum behind you.

Eris keeps a firm grip on your hand, guiding you swiftly through the shadows until he reaches a heavy wooden door.

He opens it, pulls you inside the dimly lit room, and shuts it firmly behind you, the sharp click of a turning lock echoing in the quiet space.

You look past his shoulder, your heart hammering. "Did you just lock that?" you whisper.

He nods, his expression tense.

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "And why did you do that?"

Eris groans out a frustrated breath, running a hand through his dark red hair as his other hand tugs at his collar, pulling off his tie. "Beron was watching us," he says, his voice tight. "I couldn't risk him seeing your face."

You furrow your eyebrows, stepping closer to him. "Why would it matter if your father saw?" you whisper, genuinely confused by the sudden panic in his demeanor.

Eris doesn't say anything. He avoids your gaze, walking right past you to sit heavily on the edge of a large mahogany desk in the center of the room.

"Eris," you groan his name out, demanding an answer.

He just rubs the back of his neck, completely ignoring the question. "Is it hot in here, or just me?"

You groan again in frustration. Eris stands up, unbuttoning his outer shirt and pulling it off, leaving him in just his thin undershirt.

"Eris!" you say his name again, rolling your eyes at his blatant deflection.

But he completely ignores you, starting to pace back and forth across the rug, muttering under his breath about Beron seeing you on the dance floor.

Your patience finally snaps. Reaching down, you slip one of your heavy, sharp heels off your foot, balance yourself, and hurl it straight at his head.

Eris's fae reflexes kick in just in time. He ducks, the heel whistling past his ear and thudding harmlessly against the wall. He whips his head around to look at you in utter shock, his eyes wide.

"Are you crazy?" he asks, staring at you as if you've lost your mind. "I could have been stabbed by that sharp thing!"

You shrug, crossing your arms as you stand on one foot. "I got your attention."

Eris just points a finger at you, his chest heaving under his undershirt. "You are crazy."

"Then let me leave," you say, rolling your eyes.

Eris shakes his head immediately, his jaw tightening. "I can't."

You groan, running a hand down your face, your voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You can't let me leave, or you won't let me?"

"I can't... won't let you leave," Eris repeats softly, shaking his head again. He turns away from you and starts pacing the floor of the dark room, his usual calculated composure completely fracturing.

Seeing him like this—unraveling, anxious, stripped of his arrogant court mask—makes the irritation drain right out of you.

You hop forward on your one shoed foot, closing the distance between you.

You reach out, placing a gentle hand on his tense shoulder, and whisper his name. "Eris."

Eris stops pacing. He doesn't look up, his voice barely a breath as he whispers, "I'm scared."

You take a step back, completely shocked. The powerful, ruthless heir of Autumn just admitted to being afraid. "Eris," you whisper, your heart aching. "Why are you scared?"

Eris finally looks up, his amber eyes clouded with a deep, haunting pain. "Have you ever wondered why I agreed to keeping our bond a secret?"

You shrug your shoulders slightly, your voice quiet. "Not really." You had just assumed it was for political strategy, to keep the Night and Autumn courts from tearing each other apart.

Eris nods, stepping back from your touch. "My father is not a good man."

"I know," you nod softly, already knowing the horrors Beron was capable of.

But then, Eris's fingers travel to the buttons of his undershirt. He starts unbuttoning it, his hands trembling slightly.

You furrow your eyebrows, watching him. "Eris, why are you getting—" You freeze, the words catching in your throat as the fabric parts, revealing his bare chest. It is covered in jagged, pale scars.

Eris shrugs, a bitter, hollow gesture, and slowly turns around to face away from you.

You slap a hand over your mouth as a sharp, horrified gasp tears from your lungs.

His back looks like the body of a tortured prisoner. It is a ruined landscape of overlapping whip marks, deep, jagged lacerations, and the dark, angry lines of dry blood from wounds that hadn't even been allowed to heal properly before he was forced to put on a suit and attend a ball.

"Eris..." you whisper, tears burning the backs of your eyes.

"If my father ever knew about you," Eris whispers, his voice cracking, staring at the wall. "If he knew I had a weakness... he would do worse to me. And then he would come for you, and I would die before letting that happen to you.

Driven by pure mating instinct, you step closer, reaching out to press your palm gently against the marred skin of his back.

Eris shivers violently at your touch, his muscles locking up. He whips around, his expression raw and vulnerable.

"Don't," he pleads softly.

You nod, immediately stepping back to give him space. Eris lets out a heavy, exhausted sigh, rubbing his face. "I'm... I'm sorry."

You shake your head, not saying a word. Instead, you take another deliberate step back into the center of the room.

Eris furrows his eyebrows, his amber eyes tracking your movements. "Darling, what are you—?"

You let your dark, elegant shawl slide off your shoulders, letting it pool onto the floor. Eris's gaze drops to the fabric, his confusion growing.

Then, you reach your hands behind your back, grabbing the zipper of your gown. With a smooth slide, you unzip the dress. Eris just stands there, completely paralyzed by confusion and shock, as the heavy silk dress drops to the floor, leaving you standing before him in only your undergarments.

You shut your eyes softly at the soft breath of your name dropping from Eris's lips. It sounded mostly in shock, as if he knew what you were about to do.

You turn your back to him, and with a deep, steadying breath, you finally let go. For the first time in front of him, you drop your glamour entirely.

Eris watches, breathless, as the illusion melts away. The plain brown hair shimmers, turning into a rich, midnight black shot through with deep reflections of purple. The pale, masked skin shifts, darkening slightly into the beautiful, warm tone you share with Rhysand.

And then, with a soft, rustling sound of displaced air, your hidden truth unfolds. The heavy, powerful, midnight-dark Illyrian wings, the bat-like wings that you had kept fiercely guarded from the cruelty of the world, span out into the room, twitching slightly as they are finally freed from the suffocating magic.

They weren't as big as males, but your wings looked just as powerful as most Illyrian's.

You slowly turn back around to face him, your clear, brilliant ocean-blue eyes locking onto his.

When you look down, your heart swells.

The proud, arrogant prince of Autumn is entirely gone. Eris is on his knees on the floor, staring up at your true, magnificent form with wide, worshipful eyes.

He reaches out a trembling hand toward you, his voice breaking into a reverent whisper.

"There you are."

You step closer to him, the soft rustle of your leathery wings echoing in the quiet room.

Eris looks up at you from the floor, his breathing shallow, completely captivated by the sight of your true self.

"Why do you ever hide yourself?" he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his eyes tracing the midnight-purple gleam in your hair and the deep ocean blue of your eyes.

You slowly sink to your knees right in front of him, bringing yourself down to his level. Your wings flare out slightly behind you for balance before settling against your back.

"My wings are very valuable to me," you whisper softly, looking directly into his amber eyes. "Which makes them a trophy to others. If the wrong people knew about them, they would hunt me just to clip them."

A dark, feral growl rips from deep within Eris's chest. The mere thought of anyone hunting you, of anyone daring to lay a hand on your wings, sends a wave of pure, protective dominance crashing through him.

But as he looks at you, the anger melts into absolute reverence. He reaches forward, his hands trembling slightly, and softly touches the sensitive, silken web of your wing.

A soft, involuntary sigh escapes your lips at the contact, the sheer warmth of your mate's touch sending a wave of comfort straight to your core.

Eris leans down, tilting his head forward until his forehead rests gently against yours. The heat radiating from his skin is grounding, a stark contrast to the cold ball you just left behind.

"Why?" he whispers against your skin, his voice tight with raw vulnerability. "Why show me now?"

You just shrug your shoulders slightly, your forehead brushing against his. "You showed me your most vulnerable self," you whisper back, your heart swelling with love for the broken prince in front of you. "And I wanted to show you hope."

Eris shakes his head against yours, his brow furrowing in confusion, unable to understand how someone as magnificent as you could look at his scars and offer him something so beautiful.

But you don't give him the chance to question it.

You just lean forward, closing the remaining distance between you, and press your lips to his, kissing him for the very first time.

You lean back softly, the heat of the kiss still lingering on your lips, and see Eris staring at you.

His amber eyes are wide, dark with a mixture of shock and overwhelming emotion.

The silence stretches between you, and a sudden wave of doubt hits your chest. You look down, your voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. "Did I read this... did I read this wrong?"

Before the words can even fully leave your mouth, Eris moves.

He stands up in a single, fluid motion, his powerful arms locking around your waist. He lifts you effortlessly, taking you with him as he rises from the floor.

A sharp gasp catches in your throat at the sudden movement, your midnight wings flaring out instinctively for balance as he carries you the short distance to the heavy mahogany desk.

With one sweeping, urgent motion of his arm, Eris wipes his hand across the desk, completely clearing everything off it. Books, papers, and inkwells clatter uselessly to the floor, completely forgotten.

He sits you down on top of the cleared edge, stepping firmly between your thighs to press his body flush against yours. Before you can even catch your breath, Eris leans in and kisses you hard.

It isn't like the gentle first kiss from before. This is desperate, fierce, and bruisingly deep—a silent, breathless answer to your doubt that tells you exactly how much he wants you, how much he needs you, and that you hadn't read a single thing wrong.

You tug him closer, burying your fingers in his dark red hair as you deepen the kiss. A low, breathless moan escapes Eris's throat, but he forces himself to lean back just an inch, his chest heaving as he looks up at you with fierce, burning intensity.

"If we do this..." he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his hands gripping your hips so tightly his knuckles turn white. "I will never hide you again. I don't care about my father. I'll run away, I'll do anything I can to protect you."

The sheer devotion in his amber eyes makes your breath hitch. You nod, your heart swelling. "Come with me," you whisper.

Eris shakes his head, panic flickering in his gaze. "To the Night Court? Beron would see it as an act of war and your family doesn't particularly like me..."

"We can stay in my cottage," you interrupt softly, nodding reassuringly as you touch his face. "Until it clears down with my family. They will protect us."

Eris just breathes softly against your lips, a low, possessive growl vibrating in his chest. Your response to his touch is instinctual—you squeeze your thighs, locking him firmly between them, pulling his body flush against yours to show him you aren't letting go.

He shivers at the contact, his eyes darkening to near-black as he feels the heat of your body and the solid embrace of your midnight wings wrapping slightly around the two of you.

He nods, his forehead resting against yours as he whispers one last, breathless question. "Are you sure?"

You don't bother answering with words. You just lean forward and kiss him, pulling him back down into the heat of your embrace.

Eris deepens the kiss until it turns bruising, teeth nipping at your lower lip while his hands slide lower.

When Eris's hands slide lower, his fingers catch the edge of your lace undergarments. With one sharp, possessive yank, the fabric tears away completely.

You moan loudly into his mouth, the sound desperate and uninhibited, and Eris chuckles darkly against your lips. The low, rumbling sound vibrates straight through your chest, sending a thrill of pure adrenaline down your spine.

"I've wanted to rip these off you since the moment you walked into my father's hall tonight," he mutters roughly, his lips scraping against yours as he speaks. "Seeing you pretend to be cold, pretend you didn't belong to me... it nearly drove me insane."

He eases you fully onto your back across the cleared mahogany desk, his large, warm hands smoothing over your thighs to press them wide apart.

His amber eyes rake over every single inch of your exposed skin, burning with a fierce, worshipful hunger.

As your glamour remains completely dropped, the faint, shimmering Night Court marks, the elegant, starlight-born runes that map your heritage, glow softly across your skin in the dim room.

A low, tortured groan escapes him at the sight. "Look at you," he breathes, his voice shaking. "Gods, you are magnificent. My beautiful, perfect mate."

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He kisses a fierce path down your throat, his teeth nipping lightly at your pulse point before moving across your collarbone.

He goes lower, his warm tongue tracing each glowing mark on your skin, making you shiver and arch your back.

Your midnight wings twitch against the wood of the desk, wrapping slightly around the edges as if trying to shield the two of you from the rest of the world.

When he finally settles between your spread thighs, you gasp, your fingers instantly tangling in his dark red hair.

His mouth seals over your pussy, his tongue licking broad, wet, and agonizingly slow. You let out a loud moan straight into the empty room, your hips jerking helplessly as the vibration of his mouth rumbles against your folds.

"Eris," you whimper, your hands tightening in his hair.

He doesn't speed up. Instead, he intentionality takes his time, determined to stretch out the pleasure until you're completely undone.

He moans deeply against your wet skin, a sound of pure satisfaction. "You taste so sweet, darling. So fucking perfect. I could stay right here for days."

While his tongue circles your clit with a agonizingly slow, deliberate pressure, he slides one long finger inside your slick warmth. You gasp at the sudden fullness, but he doesn't stop there.

He pushes a second finger inside, stretching you open with steady, deep pumps. He moves slowly at first, opening you up, letting your body adjust to the thick stretch of his fingers while his thumb relentlessly strokes your aching center.

Your walls flutter frantically around his fingers, slick and tight. You writhe against the desk, the friction of the wood against your bare back only driving the heat higher.

The combination of his wet, heavy tongue and the deep, stretching stretch of his fingers pushes you right to the absolute edge.

"Wait—" you whine, tugging firmly at his hair to pull him up. "Wait, Eris... I want to come on your cock."

Eris moans louder, the sound rough and gravelly as he reluctantly pulls his fingers free with a sharp, wet sound.

He crawls back up your body, his mouth hot, open, and demanding as he crashes his lips back against yours.

You don't waste a single second; your hands fly to his belt, yanking it open with trembling fingers, and shove his pants down just enough to free his thick, rigid length.

Your palm wraps around his hot, heavy cock, and you give him a firm, upward stroke. Eris's head immediately falls back, his throat exposed, a broken, undone moan spilling from his lips.

"Fuck, yes," he pants out, his grip tightening on your waist so hard it leaves marks. "Do that again. Stroke me, darling. Let me feel how much you want it."

He kicks the rest of his pants away, freeing himself completely, and then crashes back down into your mouth.

He kisses you with a desperate, wild hunger, his tongue tangling with yours.

Between bruising kisses, he mumbles against your lips, his voice thick with a fierce, unyielding promise. "Never leaving you. Never. I'll burn this whole court to the ground before I let anyone touch you again."

"Please," you breathe, your voice cracking with emotion as you arch your hips up, begging for the feel of him inside you.

Eris smirks, a flash of his usual wicked confidence returning to his amber eyes, though his voice is entirely low and rough. "Oh my darling, I never knew how sexy you sounded when you begged."

Before you can even roll your eyes at his teasing, he grips your thighs, pulling them flush against his hips.

He lines himself up against your wet, stretched center and sinks inside you in one smooth, deep thrust.

You cry out, your eyes flying wide as he fills you completely, the sheer stretching fullness of him making your head spin.

Eris doesn't wait. He starts moving fast, his hips snapping hard and relentless against yours, the heavy mahogany desk rocking loudly beneath your weight.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he pants, his head burying in your shoulder as he drives into you again and again. "So tight. So fucking wet for me. Such a good mate... you were made exactly for me, do you hear me? Only mine."

He leans down, kissing you deep and sloppy, his pace turning frantic as the friction pushes you both closer to the peak.

He pulls back just enough to look down at you, his amber eyes completely blown out, filled with a desperate, raw adoration. "Gods, I love you. I love you with my whole fucking being. I'm yours. Every piece of me is yours."

You freeze beneath him, your breath catching. He stills too, buried deep inside you, his chest heaving as he watches your reaction, terrified for a split second that he said too much.

But the truth of his words shatters the last of your defenses. You surge up, wrapping your arms securely around his neck, and kiss him fiercely, pouring every ounce of your soul into it.

"I love you," you vow against his lips, tears blurring your vision. "I love you, Eris. I have always loved you—even before the bond."

Eris stares at you, completely stunned, his jaw dropping slightly as the weight of your confession hits him.

A tear slips from his eye, and he nods, pressing his forehead firmly against yours. "The moment I met you in that clearing years ago, I knew what you were going to be to me," he whispers, his voice cracking with emotion. "I waited. I put on that mask every single day and I safely loved you from a distance while waiting. I would wait a thousand more years just to have you like this."

You let out a broken moan, your inner walls clenching tightly around him in response to his words. "Come with me, Eris. Please."

"I'm coming with you," he growls, the finality in his voice absolute.

He drives deep one last time, his pace faltering as his body locks up. A loud, undone shout tears from his throat as he comes hard, pulsing deeply inside your warmth.

The sheer intensity of his release triggers your own, your orgasm crashes through you right after, your walls tightly milking him while you cling to his broad shoulders, your midnight wings wrapping completely around both of your bodies like a cocoon.

You stay locked together on top of the desk, kissing softly through the intense aftershocks, your bodies trembling, and your hearts hammering in perfect, unbroken sync.

You stay locked together on top of the desk, the heavy aftershocks of the climax still rippling through your bodies.

Eris's forehead rests against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin, his hands still trembling where they grip your hips.

"Don't leave me," you whisper, the vulnerability in your voice surprising even yourself as you tighten your arms around his neck. "Eris, please. Look at me."

He lifts his head, his amber eyes blown out and completely unguarded as he looks down at you.

"I'm right here, darling. I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise me," you beg, your voice cracking as you press your hips up against his, desperate to keep him as close as physically possible.

Your midnight wings twitch against the mahogany wood, wrapping tighter around the two of you. "I can't go back out there and pretend you're just Beron's cruel heir anymore. I can't watch him hurt you. Please, Eris. Say you'll come to the cottage tonight... forever even."

A low, emotional groan escapes him, and he buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive skin there until you gasp.

"Take me with you," he growls, the words rough and entirely undone. "Fuck, please take me with you. Hide me away from this place. I'll give up the throne, I'll give up everything. Just don't make me let go of you."

"I won't," you sob softly, a tear escaping your ocean-blue eyes as you run your hands down his scarred back, mapping every line, every wound he'd kept hidden from the world. "I've got you. You're mine now. Tell me you're mine, Eris."

"Always," he pants, shifting slightly inside you, his length thickening all over again as the heat between you flares back to life. "Only yours. Gods, you have no idea what it does to me to hear you beg for me like this. Do it again. Tell me what you want, my mate."

"I want you inside me again," you whisper frantically, your thighs tightening around his waist to pull him deeper. "Please, Eris. Don't stop. Move for me. I need you."

Eris lets out a dark, possessive chuckle that vibrates straight through your chest. "Your wish is my command, my beautiful princess," he murmurs against your lips before slamming his hips forward, diving right back into the heat of you.

Eris groans into your mouth, his hips giving one final, deep roll against yours before he reluctantly pulls his length free from your slick warmth with a soft, wet sound.

You let out a quiet whine at the sudden loss of him, your thighs twitching as they drop from his waist.

But Eris doesn't let you slide away. He slips his strong arms beneath your back and knees, lifting you effortlessly off the mahogany desk.

You gasp softly, your midnight-purple wings folding tightly against your back to accommodate the shift as you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.

"I've got you," he growls softly, his voice thick and rough as he carries you across the dark room toward a hidden door in the wood-paneled wall—a private anteroom meant for the heir's rest.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder, revealing a massive, dark wood bed draped in rich, heavy silks the color of autumn leaves.

Eris walks over and lays you down onto the mattress with absolute gentleness, as if you are the most precious thing he has ever held.

He immediately crawls over you, his large body a warm, heavy weight between your thighs, his amber eyes burning with a renewed, fierce hunger as he looks down at your true, unglamoured self.

"Now," he whispers, his fingers tangling in your dark hair, his thumb sweeping over your bottom lip. "Where were we, darling? You were begging me for—"

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sharp, heavy thuds against the outer door echo loudly through the quiet suite.

Eris reacts on pure instinct, his entire body locking up like iron. With a feral, terrifying snarl ripping from his throat, he immediately throws himself completely over you.

He uses his broad, scarred shoulders and his massive frame to shield your bare body and your midnight wings from view, his hand flying to the dagger he always keeps hidden beneath the mattress.

Before you and Eris could fully move, the locked door suddenly rattles, and with a sharp click of magic, it flies wide open.

Heavy, familiar footsteps echo into the room. A shadow falls over the threshold, and you brace yourself for a fight—until a very distinct, smooth voice cuts through the tension.

"For the love of the Mother, put some clothes on."

Rhysand steps into the room, stopping dead in his tracks. His violet eyes are wide, and he immediately slaps a hand over his face, completely covering his eyes.

"I came to make sure you two hadn't murdered each other, but I definitely did not need to be greeted by the sight of Eris's bare ass," Rhysand groans, turning his head entirely away while Eris glares back at him, still keeping you safely hidden beneath his body.

Rhysand stands by the door, his hand still firmly covering his eyes, but his posture has gone rigid. The playful annoyance vanishes from his tone, replaced by the heavy, commanding weight of a High Lord.

"How long?" Rhysand demands, his voice low and sharp.

You freeze beneath Eris, your heart leaping into your throat.

Eris lets out a frustrated groan, but he slowly shifts his weight, sliding off the bed to protect your modesty. He deliberately positions his body to block Rhysand's view of you as he walks back into the main office space.

Hearing the movement, Rhysand lowers his hand and turns his head to face the room—only to instantly groan again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seriously? Put something on, Vanserra!"

Eris completely ignores him, completely unbothered as he bends down right where your discarded clothes are scattered across the floor.

He bypasses your torn undergarments, scoops up his own loose button-down shirt from the desk, and quickly slips on a pair of underwear.

Eris walks back over to the bed, completely ignoring your brother's glaring eyes, and hands you the clean white shirt.

You quickly sit up, pulling your midnight wings tight against your back, and slide your arms into the oversized fabric, buttoning it up to cover yourself.

The moment you're covered, Eris sinks onto the edge of the mattress next to you. His amber eyes soften, a low groan escaping him as he takes in the sight of you drowning in his clothes.

He can't help himself, he leans in, burying his face in your hair and pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your neck.

Rhysand forcefully waves a hand through the air between you two, letting out a heavy, exasperated sigh.

"Yeah, your brother is still standing right here. Break it up." He steps fully into the room, his violet eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes you squirm. "Now answer my question. How long?"

You shift uncomfortably against the silks, your ocean-blue eyes darting to the floor. You shrug your shoulders slightly, your voice barely a murmur. "Since tonight..."

Eris immediately snaps his head toward you, shaking his head. "No," he corrects, his voice firm and laced with years of hidden longing. "From the beginning."

Rhysand stares at the two of you, the sheer weight of what that means—a hidden mating bond, existing right under everyone's noses in the middle of a political minefield—settling over him. He slowly shakes his head, his hand sliding down his face as he whispers, "I need a drink."

[hockeylover25]

Books of Truth*

Cassian x MateFemale!Reader

Summary: when Nesta catches you reading a smutty book, you explain your feelings with sleeping with your mate and she convinces you to spice things up in the bedroom.

Warnings: smut, p in v, newfound kinks, tiny bit of public play, small miscommunication, small bondage, overstimulation, fingering, dirty talk (whore word brought up)

Authors note: this was a lovely request in which you can find here, anddddd let me know if you guys would like to see more and if you have certain things you would like for this universe to try in bed. I have some ideas, but I want to hear my lovely viewers ideas as well. And as always hope yall enjoy 🫶🏻.

Main Masterlist:

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The library was blissfully quiet, a sanctuary of dust motes and towering shelves that smelled of ancient parchment and ozone.

You were tucked into the deepest corner of a velvet armchair, the book in your hands open to a particularly descriptive passage that had your cheeks burning.

You were so absorbed in the illicit details, the way the female was being pinned, the sheer intensity of the scene, that you didn't hear the soft footfalls approaching from behind.

"That chapter is a good one."

You jumped, a gasp escaping your throat as you slammed the book against your chest, covering the page instantly.

You twisted around to find Nesta standing there, her expression unreadable, though a sharp, knowing brow was arched high.

"You... you've read this?" you stuttered, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

Nesta let out a dry, amused laugh, sliding down to lean against the back of your chair. "Darling, I have read just about every smut book written. Don't look so shocked."

Your eyes went wide, and before you could deflect, she moved to sit on the edge of your chair, leaning in close.

Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Do you read these to get inspired for you and Cassian?"

You felt a heat bloom from your chest up to the tips of your ears. She reached out, slapping your arm softly with a smirk. "You little whore, you do!"

You ducked your head, trying to hide your face, but you couldn't keep the truth contained. "He's... Cassian is soft in bed, actually," you confessed, your voice barely audible.

Nesta furrowed her eyebrows, looking genuinely confused. "Really?"

"Yeah," you nodded, biting your lip. "And I like... it. Sometimes."

Nesta gave you a look of pure disbelief, shifting so she could look you square in the eye. "Don't even lie to me. You need to talk to him."

"No," you shook your head immediately, panic rising. "He'll think I'm a... a—"

"A bed freak?" Nesta interrupted, her eyes glinting with amusement. "Sorry to break it to you, but if you are reading about being cuffed up... darling, you're a freak."

You turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the dawn. Nesta sighed, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder. "You and Cassian have been mates for what, centuries?"

"Yes," you whispered.

"And this whole time he has been soft with you?" She leveled a gaze at you. "Do you even come?"

Your eyes flew wide, and you instinctively slapped her arm, glancing around the empty rows of books. "Nesta!"

She just scoffed, entirely unbothered. "No one is around. Answer me."

You rolled your eyes, slumping back into the chair. "Yes, I come. But sometimes... sometimes it's just hard to get there. It feels like he's handling glass, and I just... I want him to stop handling me so carefully."

Nesta leaned in, her voice a low, directive hum. "Do you know what you need to do?"

You moved closer, drawn into the dangerous promise of her advice. "What?"

She smirked, a predatory curve of her lips. "Drive him crazy."

A slow, tentative smile began to spread across your face as you looked at the book still clutched to your chest. You took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. "That won't be hard."

Nesta nodded sharply, her resolve unshakeable. "Do it tonight at dinner."

You blinked, the sudden transition from library daydreams to an actual, actionable plan making your stomach flip with a mix of nerves and thrill. "Tonight? Are you sure? What exactly should I... do?"

Nesta offered a casual shrug, as if she were suggesting a simple change of outfit rather than a potential bedroom revolution. "Whatever makes him go crazy. You're the one who knows him best, aren't you?"

You looked away, staring unseeingly at the spines of the books lining the shelves as your mind raced. A flush began to climb your throat.

"Well... he always loses his mind when I lick things. Not anything specific, just... if I'm eating something, or even just running my tongue over my own lip. He'll stop mid-sentence, his eyes go dark, and I know he's just sitting there thinking about me... sucking his cock."

The bluntness of your own confession hung in the air, leaving Nesta mortified, but she didn't flinch.

If anything, her gaze sharpened, a flicker of wicked approval in her eyes. "There you go. That's your answer. Something like that tonight at dinner. Subtle, but impossible to ignore."

You fiddled with the edge of your book, your voice dropping to a nervous murmur. "Are you sure this is the right way to handle it? I just don't want him to look at me differently. I don't want him to think I'm weird, or that I'm... unsatisfied."

Nesta sighed, a sound that was equal parts exasperated and affectionate. She reached out, placing a grounding, firm hand on your arm.

"Darling, listen to me. If anything, Cassian is going to be upset at himself. He's going to realize he's been so careful with you that he didn't notice you haven't actually been enjoying your sex life as much as you could be."

You looked up, your instinct to protect him kicking in immediately. "I do enjoy it," you insisted, though the words sounded thin even to your own ears.

Nesta just shook her head, her expression softening into something knowing and firm. "Stop lying to yourself, and stop trying to play the martyr for his sake. You deserve more than soft touches if you're craving something else."

You looked at her for a long, silent moment, feeling the weight of her words settle in your chest. Finally, you offered a slow, shaky nod, the seed of a plan beginning to take root. Tonight wouldn't just be dinner, it would be the start of something new.

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Later before dinner, the evening air in your shared chambers was cool, but the heavy, familiar scent of cedar and mountain air told you exactly who had just stepped through the door.

You were curled up against the headboard, eyes fixed on the pages of your book, when the mattress dipped.

Cassian climbed onto the bed, his presence immediately crowding your space. A low, familiar smirk played on his lips when he saw you reading.

"Still at it, are you?" he teased, his hand coming forward to gently, but firmly, press your book down onto your lap.

He leaned in, his movements languid and easy, the way they had been for centuries. He pressed a soft, lingering peck to your lips, a gesture of affection as routine as breathing.

But today, the gentle touch felt different... too safe, too practiced.

Instead of sinking back into your pillows as you usually did, you caught his lower lip between your teeth for a second before pulling back just enough to pout.

Cassian's brows furrowed, his playful smirk faltering into genuine confusion.

He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his voice dropping to that low, honey-thick murmur he used only for you. "What's wrong, baby? You're awfully quiet."

You didn't answer with words. You simply leaned forward, closing the small distance he'd created.

His eyes softened, expecting another gentle, sweet kiss, and he leaned into it with a hum of contentment. But as his lips met yours, you didn't play along with the soft game.

You surged forward, your hand coming up to tangle in his hair to keep him anchored, and you slipped your tongue into his mouth with sudden, deliberate heat.

The sound he made was a sharp, jagged intake of air, almost a gasp, against your mouth. He froze for a heartbeat, his hands splayed wide on the mattress, eyes wide as he realized this wasn't the tentative, guided exploration he was used to.

You felt the muscles in his chest coil, the playful tension in his body instantly replaced by something far more alert, far more hungry.

You didn't give him a chance to pull away. You reached down, taking his calloused hand, and guided it upward, pressing his palm firmly against the curve of your breast.

A low, guttural moan vibrated in his chest, a sound so raw and hungry it sent a jolt of electricity straight down your spine.

"What—" he started, his voice thick, disoriented by the sudden shift in your behavior.

You didn't let him finish. With a decisive shove against his shoulders, you forced him backward onto the mattress. Your book was forgotten, tumbling to the floor with a soft thud, as you scrambled up, straddling his lap.

Cassian let out a sharp, ragged sound, his hands instinctively dropping to settle heavily on your hips, gripping your ass as you began to grind against him, a slow, deliberate movement that had his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost entirely black.

You leaned down, trailing a line of hot, open-mouthed kisses along the corded muscles of his neck, feeling him shudder beneath you.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his voice a frantic, breathy whisper against your skin. "What has gotten into you?"

You pulled back just enough to hover over him, your heart hammering against your ribs, and pressed a brief, taunting peck to his lips.

You whispered against them, "Hopefully, tonight, you will be."

Cassian's eyes went wide, his mouth slightly parted in sheer shock, his hands still anchored firmly to you.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door swung open with a sharp click.

"Cassian, we—"

Rhysand and Azriel stood in the doorway, their gazes locking onto the scene on the bed. You frozen, straddling a bewildered and clearly aroused Cassian, your hair disheveled and your breath coming in shallow gasps.

Cassian scrambled to sit up, his movement so sudden it sent you tumbling to the side of the bed. Azriel's shadow flickered, and he turned on his heel, his shoulders shaking with silent, stifled laughter as he began to walk away.

Rhysand stood in the threshold for a heartbeat longer, his expression a mix of amusement and forced composure. "Dinner is ready," he said, his voice smooth as silk, "if either of you want it."

You stood up, smoothing your clothes with shaking hands, your face burning with a heat that had nothing to do with shame and everything to do with the thrill of what you'd just started. You brushed past them, keeping your head held high.

"Thank you, Rhys," you managed to say, your voice surprisingly steady.

Azriel gave you a curt, respectful nod as you swept past him, his eyes glinting with uncharacteristic humor.

He glanced back into the room, catching one last look at Cassian, who was still sat frozen on the bed, looking entirely shell-shocked.

As you walked away, you heard Rhysand's amused voice echoing down the hall. "You alright, brother?"

"I think," Cassian's voice came back, sounding dazed and utterly undone, "someone drugged my mate."

Both Azriel and Rhysand erupted into laughter that echoed through the stone corridor, while behind them, you heard Cassian's desperate, stammering attempts to defend himself without giving away the delicious details of exactly what had just happened.

When you swept into the dining room, the air felt thick with residual tension. Feyre and Elain looked up from their plates, their gazes shifting between your disheveled hair and the flushed skin at your throat, their expressions mirroring a mixture of concern and growing confusion.

You didn't bother to hide it. Instead, you caught Nesta's gaze, offering her a slow, deliberate wink.

She smirked, a dangerous, knowing glint in her eyes that told you she'd figured it all out.

Behind you, the heavy doors opened again, and the three males stepped into the room. Cassian was still keyed up, walking backward as he faced Rhysand and Azriel, oblivious to the fact that he was currently on center stage.

"—she has never done this," Cassian was rambling, his voice rough and incredulous, "but fuck, was she—"

Azriel caught him by the shoulder, spinning him around firmly to face the table. Cassian's jaw snapped shut, his golden-brown eyes widening as he realized exactly where he was.

A sudden, deep crimson crept up his neck, staining his ears as he caught the amused looks of everyone at the table.

He didn't say another word, just hurried over to pull out the chair next to you, his movements stiff. When Nesta let out a sharp, unrestrained laugh, he shot her a dark, defensive glare that only made her smirk widen.

Rhysand and Azriel took their seats, both maintaining an air of impeccable, if slightly amused, composure.

"Where are Amren and Mor?" Feyre asked, breaking the sudden silence.

Rhysand barely flickered, his voice dropping to a smooth, quiet tone. "On a mission."

Feyre nodded, accepting the explanation without question, and dinner began. But the table was unusually quiet. While the others engaged in murmured conversation, you and Cassian were locked in a battle of your own.

You lifted your spoon, the movement calculated. As you brought the soup to your lips, you took your time, sucking the spoon with a deliberate, languid motion that was designed for an audience of one.

You kept your eyes locked on Cassian, watching as his throat bobbed, his own meal forgotten. You could practically see his pulse jumping at his temple, the effort to keep his composure visibly straining his broad frame.

Nesta noticed. She caught your eye from across the table, her own wink almost imperceptible to the others, a silent applause for your performance.

You felt a surge of triumph, your heart racing. You took another slow sip, letting your gaze drop to his lap before drifting back up to his eyes with a mask of wide-eyed, faux innocence.

Cassian looked away, gripping his own spoon tight enough to bend the metal, his chest heaving with a shallow, sharp breath.

Without breaking eye contact, you dropped your hand beneath the table, letting it slide firmly onto his inner thigh.

Cassian's eyes went wide, his grip on his spoon slipping, and he let out a jagged, choked sound as your fingers pressed into his corded muscle, anchoring him right where you wanted him.

Rhysand glanced toward you and Cassian, his gaze sweeping over the table with a calm, discerning intelligence.

He caught the slight shift in the air, but when he saw nothing out of the ordinary, just his brother sitting stiffly and you eating with deliberate focus, he merely rolled his eyes, a small, weary smile tugging at his lips before he turned his attention back to his own meal.

In the quiet, the clatter of your spoon hitting the floor rang out like a gunshot. Nobody even flinched.

The Inner Circle had grown accustomed to your occasional clumsiness; no one said a word, and the conversation flowed around you as if the incident were the most mundane thing in the world.

You didn't hesitate. You dipped beneath the table, the linen tablecloth shielding your movements from view.

As you reached for the spoon, your hand continued past the hardwood floor, sliding upward until your palm pressed firmly against the heavy, undeniable bulge straining against the fabric of Cassian's trousers.

Cassian's breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound that he strangled into a cough. His hand shot down, not to stop you, but to clamp over your wrist, guiding you.

With a firm, desperate grip, he forced your hand into a rhythmic, steady up-and-down motion, jerking him through the thick layers of his pants.

He stared straight ahead at his plate, his jaw locked so tightly the muscle bunched in his cheek, his entire body radiating a frantic, concentrated heat.

The friction was agonizingly good, his arousal thick and heavy against your palm. You held the rhythm, enjoying the silent, shuddering tension you had created between you both.

Finally, you retrieved the spoon from the floor, your fingers lingering for one last, hard squeeze of his length before you pulled away.

As you resurfaced, you shifted your hand back up to his inner thigh, pressing down firmly, grounding him. A servant glided over, sensing the need, and discreetly placed a fresh spoon in front of you.

"Thank you," you murmured to the servant, your voice calm and steady, while your other hand remained locked on Cassian's thigh, his eyes darkened as he fought to recover his breath.

Throughout dinner, the dining room was vibrant with the sound of laughter and the clinking of silverware, a stark contrast to the thick, electric silence radiating from your seat.

Despite the conversation flowing around you, you remained steadfast, keeping your hand firmly planted on Cassian's thigh, ignoring the way his muscles bunched and tensed beneath your palm every time you shifted.

You focused your attention on the others, laughing at a dry comment from Azriel and keeping your tone light as you engaged in the dinner chatter, playing the part of the composed guest to perfection.

Cassian, however, was clearly struggling to maintain his own composure. His gaze flickered toward you repeatedly, his golden-brown eyes dark and dilated, betraying his agitation.

Periodically, he would lean over, invading your personal space to press a lingering kiss to your cheek or the sensitive skin of your jaw.

Each time he did, you would turn your head, meeting his gaze with a bright, innocent smile that clearly sent a surge of frustration, and renewed desire, through him.

Every kiss was his attempt to regain your attention, a silent, desperate bid for you to acknowledge the chaos you were causing him, and every time you smiled back, he seemed to swallow hard, his smile tight with the victory of having earned your focus, even if it was only for a fleeting, maddening moment.

The moment the final course was cleared, Cassian didn't wait for pleasantries or excuses. He stood, his movements sharp and decisive, and reached for your hand.

His grip was tight, mostly possessive, and he pulled you from your chair with an urgency that sent a thrill of anticipation racing through you.

You didn't fight him, you allowed him to race you through the dim, silent corridors of the House of Wind, his heavy boots echoing against the stone until you reached the privacy of your bedchamber.

He slammed the door shut behind you, the latch clicking with a finality that signaled the end of the evening's performance.

Before you could even draw a breath, he had you pressed back against the solid oak, his body pinning you there.

He devoured you then, a kiss so hard and hungry it made your head spin, your knees buckling slightly as a needy, broken moan escaped your throat, swallowed instantly by his lips.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his golden-brown eyes searching yours with a mixture of confusion and intense, simmering desire.

"What is wrong with you tonight?" he rasped, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly tone that always made you ache.

You ignored his question, far too gone in the heat of the moment to explain.

You simply whined, shifting against him, tilting your head back and pleading, "Kiss me. Again. Now."

His hand came up, his large, calloused palm wrapping firmly around the back of your neck, his fingers pressing into your skin to hold you exactly where he wanted you.

You leaned your head back against his grip, eyes fluttered shut, offering your throat to him in a silent, desperate invitation.

He applied pressure, his thumb tracing the sensitive cord of your neck, but he stopped, his brow furrowing in genuine concern as he searched your face. "My love... what is going on? Talk to me."

You kept your eyes squeezed tight, your body trembling with the sheer intensity of the restraint you'd been holding all night.

You whispered the only truth you had left, your voice a shaky, breathless confession against the charged air, "I want more."

Cassian went still. Slowly, agonizingly, he pulled his hands away from you, the loss of his touch leaving a sudden, chilling void.

He took a half-step back, his expression guarded, his voice barely a whisper as he looked at you, waiting for clarity. "What?"

You hide your face in your hands, the confession burning behind your teeth, but Cassian is there in an instant.

His large, calloused hands catch your wrists, gently but firmly pulling them away from your face until you have no choice but to meet his golden-brown eyes.

The intensity in his expression is stripped of its usual playfulness, replaced by a sharp, focused demand.

"Baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that curls through your stomach. "Tell me."

You take a shaky breath, the vulnerability of the moment making your heart hammer against your ribs.

"I want you to fuck me," you say, your voice steadier than you expected, emboldened by the way his gaze darkens at the words. "Not make love to me, Cassian. I need you to take my control away. I need you to make me submit to you... to tie me up and just... own me."

The silence that follows is heavy, charged with a sudden, electric tension. Before you can even finish the thought, Cassian moves, bridging the gap between you and crashing his lips against yours in a kiss that is anything but soft.

It's bruising, possessive, and hungry, a silent acknowledgment of the shift in the air.

He pulls back just enough to hover inches from your lips, his brow furrowed with a mix of disbelief and scorching desire.

"How long?" he asks, his voice barely a breath. "How long have you felt like this?"

"For months," you mumble, your fingers gripping the fabric of his tunic.

A low growl tears from his throat. He doesn't look away, his hand drifting from your wrist to trace a slow, agonizing path down the slope of your stomach, his touch sending ripples of heat through your skin.

"My poor mate," he whispers, a dangerous edge to his tone. "I'll be a better one. I'll give you exactly what you've been craving."

You look up, meeting his eyes, and he leans in, his teeth grazing your bottom lip in a sharp, stinging bite that makes you gasp. "You want this?" he challenges.

"I need it, Cass," you breathe, leaning closer, pressing your body against his until there isn't an inch of space left between you.

He nods, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that promises you aren't going to be leaving this bed anytime soon.

He leans in for one final, searing kiss before pulling away, his movements fluid and predatory. He nods toward the bed, his voice dropping to a command that brooks no argument.

"Take your clothes off," he says, his eyes dark with intent as he watches you. "And lay down."

You hesitate, the weight of the moment and your own anticipation stalling you for a heartbeat.

Cassian doesn't let the pause linger; a sharp, stinging smack lands on your backside, making you jump and sparking a jolt of electricity that travels straight to your core.

You walk past him, your movements fluid as you slip your shirt over your head, the fabric pooling on the floor, and turn to face him.

He begins unbuttoning his own trousers, his eyes never leaving yours, dark and heavy with promise.

You mirror his movements, unzipping your pants and sliding them down your legs until you are left standing before him in nothing but your undergarments.

You move to the bed, sitting on the edge of the mattress, and he whispers a command, "Lean back".

As you obey, sinking back against the pillows, a guttural, pleased growl rumbles from his chest.

"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise making a needy moan escape your throat. He smirks, his movements deliberate as he strips off his own shirt, his muscles flexing under the low light of the room.

He walks toward you and stops just before the edge of the bed, giving you every opportunity to take him in.

You look up, breathless as you study your mate, the massive, powerful span of his wings, the unruly length of his hair, and the rugged, beautiful lines of his body.

Finally, he finishes undressing, and your gaze drops to the sight of his cock, large and hard, standing as a testament to his desire.

You lift your eyes back to his, and he meets your stare with a slow, wicked smirk. He moves, shifting to hover over you, his body a heavy, welcome weight.

His hand drops, slipping down to press firmly against your heat, and he lets out a low, rough murmur against your ear, "So fucking wet... and I haven't even done anything yet".

You lean your head back against the pillows, your breath hitching as a needy, high-pitched moan escapes your throat.

Cassian's eyes darken, and with a sudden, decisive movement, he rips your underwear away, the fabric tearing slightly in his haste.

You groan his name, a desperate, fragmented sound, but he shushes you instantly, capturing your lips in a searing, demanding kiss as he slips a finger inside you.

The sudden invasion makes you arch off the bed, a fresh, shuddering moan vibrating against his mouth.

He pulls back just enough to hover inches from your lips, his voice dropping to a dangerous, soft rasp. "What do you want, baby?"

You whine, the sensation of his finger already unraveling your composure, and you mutter, "I don't know... I just need this."

Cassian smirks, the look predatory and pleased as he licks his lips.

"Yeah?" he whispers, his thumb tracing the sensitive entrance of your wet heat. "And what makes my mate want this, huh? What changed your mind?"

Your gaze drifts involuntarily toward the bookshelf across the room, where your collection of hidden, well-worn stories sits. Cassian follows your line of sight, his eyes narrowing as he puts the pieces together.

A low, wicked laugh rumbles in his chest as he turns back to you. "Ohhh, that's what it is, huh? My mate is a whore, aren't you?"

He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "You like reading about this?"

You nod, unable to look away from his intensity.

"Yeah?" he murmurs, his other hand moving to cup your breast, his touch firm and possessive.

"And what things from these books make you like this? What makes my mate so wet? Tell me, baby, and I'll do whatever you want."

You moan as he slips a second finger inside, the internal pressure making your head spin. You stutter out, your voice thick with urgency, "Just... make me come."

Cassian chuckles, a dark, rich sound that vibrates through your entire body.

"Yeah?" he asks, his gaze locked onto yours with a intensity that promises you aren't going to be leaving this bed for a long time. "You want me to fuck you until you know nothing but my name and the word 'more'?"

You nod again, a desperate, frantic movement, and Cassian coos, his expression softening into something devastatingly tender yet entirely possessive.

"I'll give you that, baby," he promises, his fingers picking up the rhythm. "I'll give you everything. All you need to do is ask."

Cassian's fingers curl inside you, hitting that spot with ruthless precision as your body locks up.

Your hand clutches his forearm, nails digging in while a broken moan of his name spills from your lips. He smirks, eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction.

"Oh look at that," he rasps, voice low and mocking, "you're almost there, aren't you?"

He leans down and claims your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue sliding deep as his thumb presses hard against your clit. "Come, baby," he mutters against your lips.

Your orgasm crashes through you hard, pussy clenching and pulsing around his fingers. Cassian watches every twitch and shudder with a satisfied grin while you collapse back against the pillows, chest heaving.

"Oh, little mate," he whispers, voice dripping with promise, "we aren't even close to being done."

You whine, still sensitive, and he chuckles darkly. "This is what you wanted, right? Reading those filthy little books until you're dripping for it?"

You nod, cheeks burning, and Cassian flips you onto your stomach without warning. He shoves a pillow under your hips, lifting your ass higher.

"All you need to do is lay there," he mutters, voice rough, "let your mate do all the work."

You nod, breath catching when the blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance. He pushes in slow and deep, the new angle forcing a muffled scream into the pillow as he bottoms out.

You've never felt him this deep before. Your walls flutter around every thick inch while he leans over you, lips brushing your ear.

"Fuck, that's it," he growls, hips snapping forward. "Taking my cock so well, baby. So tight and wet for me. You love getting fucked like this, don't you? Like a little slut who can't get enough."

You lift your head, voice shaking. "Cassian—please, I need to come."

He kisses the side of your neck, pace never slowing. "You don't need to beg me, baby. Just come whenever you need to."

The permission breaks you. Your orgasm rips through you, pussy spasming hard around his cock. You can't stop—wave after wave rolls through you, your slick coating him as you moan his name into the pillow.

Cassian laughs low, mocking and pleased. "Look at you, coming nonstop on my cock. Can't even control yourself, can you?"

You mumble his name again, body limp and trembling, and he pulls out just long enough to flip you onto your back. He kisses you hard, then reaches for the leather cuffs from his discarded suit. With practiced ease he secures your wrists to the bed frame above your head.

You whine at the restraint, but he only smirks. "You wanted this, baby. Take it."

He thrusts back inside you deep, the new position letting him grind against your clit with every stroke. Another orgasm hits you fast, your cunt squeezing him rhythmically.

Cassian groans at the sight of your creamy release forming a white ring around the base of his cock, dripping down his shaft and onto the sheets.

"Fuck, look at that mess," he rasps, hips stuttering. "Gonna fill you up now."

His cock throbs as he comes, hot pulses of cum flooding your pussy while he keeps fucking it deeper with short, rough thrusts.

Cassian doesn't ease up for a second. His hips keep driving into you with the same relentless rhythm, every thrust punching a broken sound from your throat.

You're exactly where he wanted you, your mind blank except for his name and the desperate need for more.

He smirks down at you, fingers gripping your jaw. "That's it," he growls, leaning in to claim your mouth in a deep, devouring kiss. "Gonna make us come together, baby."

You nod, lips parting on instinct. His eyes flash with heat before he leans closer and spits into your open mouth.

The filthy act rips a moan from you, and Cassian shakes his head with a wicked little smile, hips snapping harder.

"Baby, please," you mutter, voice wrecked. "Come with me."

Cassian groans into your mouth, the sound low and rough. He reaches up and unbuckles the leather cuffs, freeing your wrists. The second you're loose you grab him, tugging his body flush against yours. His thrusts slow, turning deep and deliberate, grinding into you with every roll of his hips.

"Come, baby," he breathes against your lips. "Come with me."

Your orgasm crashes through you at the same moment his does. You both moan loud and unrestrained, bodies locked together as he pulses hot and thick inside you, your walls fluttering and squeezing around him while he keeps fucking his cum deeper with short, grinding strokes.

The golden haze of the afterglow hangs heavy in the room, the only sound is the ragged synchronization of your breathing.

Cassian shifts, his forehead coming to rest against yours, your noses nudging together in a gentle, grounding rhythm.

He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle that vibrates through your chests, his lips grazing yours in a lingering, tender kiss.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice gravel-low and thick with lingering intensity. "Should've had you tell me your feelings years ago."

You press your face into the crook of his neck, feeling the rapid thrum of his pulse beneath his skin, and murmur, "I'm sorry."

Cassian pulls back just enough to look at you, his brows furrowing as he searches your face. "What? What are you sorry for, baby?"

You shrug against him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. "For not telling you... about how I felt. About what I wanted."

His expression softens instantly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a touch so reverent it makes your heart ache.

He leans in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to your temple. "But you did now. And that's all that matters. Let's forget the past, yeah? Just think about the future."

You smirk, your eyes darkening as you look up at him. "And what's that supposed to look like?"

Cassian's smirk returns, sharper and more predatory than before. He begins to rotate his hips, grinding his length slowly, agonizingly, against your still-sensitive core.

A sharp, involuntary moan breaks from your throat, and he growls, "A lot, my little minx. I've got a lot to learn about these new kinks you want to try, and I want to try every single one of them. We're going to explore every inch of this."

He resumes his rhythm, his thrusts picking up speed as he begins to fuck you again—slow, deep, and impossibly possessive.

You arch into him, your nails digging into the muscles of his back, and breathe out, "I'll get you a book."

[hockeylover25]

I've said it before and I'll say it again: there is not enough cassian smut about there people!!! It's a hard world to survive without my handsome Illyrian warrior😢. So ofc I had an idea to fix that! It could be a series or just one fic whatever you want.

So reader and cassian are mates for a very long time and he is also the first person reader had sex with, so she doesn't have that much experience unlike beloved cassian (like he taught her about bj and he always guided her when they did something new for her). She always hears and reads in books about all kinds of plays and kinks and she would like to explore that area so she starts slipping these ideas in conversations but one day Cassian asks what's wrong and she tells him if he could stop being so soft and be a little rougher in bed and try something new.

I was thinking maybe you could do it like a series where every chapter is a different kink or you could do just one and she how it goes. But that's it hope you like it. Keep up the good work sweetie🫶

Finally got this done because I lovedddd this, I changed it up a tiny bit, but I still hope you enjoy🫶🏻

You can find the story here, or in on my page!

Also, let me know if you guys would like multiple parts and what you would like to read with this couple! I have some ideas but I want y’all’s input!!🫶🏻🫶🏻

[hockeylover25]

True Mates*

Lucien x RhysandSister!Reader

Summary: months after Lucien learns Elain is not his true mate, you come and comfort him on Winter Solstice, only to learn the truth behind your pushing feelings for the male.

Warnings: drugging, Tampon (he’s only brought up), smut, p in v, dirty talk, oral (m&f receiving)… I believe that’s it…

Authors note: omg… who is this girl… last night at like 11 pm I thought of this and didn’t care I needed to be into work at 10:30 (currently writing this note in my car…) but I just needed to write this!!! I haven’t wrote for Lucien in so long and this was such a need. As always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻

Main Masterlist:

—————

The weight of the Winter Solstice celebration downstairs—the laughter, the warmth, the sheer, crushing joy of the Inner Circle—feels worlds away. Here, on the quiet balcony of the House of Wind, the air is sharp and bites at your skin, but it is a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere inside.

You press your back against the stone wall near the entrance, watching him. Lucien stands at the edge of the railing, his silhouette rigid against the sprawling, snow-dusted peaks of the Night Court.

He looks like a man untethered, a fox who has lost his den.

You know the truth of what has been whispered in the dark corners of the house: that his "mating bond" with Elain was a cruel, manufactured lie—a toxin injected into his mind by Tamlin's desperation to wound Rhysand and Feyre.

And you know the rest. You know that the moment the truth shattered that illusion, Elain didn't look at Lucien with sorrow; she looked at Azriel.

They have been gone since, finally stepping into the reality of a bond that was always there, leaving Lucien to pick up the jagged, broken pieces of a life he thought he understood.

With a heavy sigh, you step away from the shadows and knock softly against the doorframe.

Lucien spins around, his hand moving to his side with practiced, lethal speed—only for his shoulders to drop the moment his amber eye lands on you. He lets out a shaky, jagged breath, the tension leaving his frame.

"It's just you," he murmurs, his voice raspy.

You close the door behind you, muffling the festive music from the Great Hall, and walk to stand beside him at the railing.

The stars above are cold and indifferent, but you feel the warmth of the magic Rhysand has woven around this place. You watch the heavens, trying to find some peace, but the silence between you is heavy with his unspoken grief.

Lucien glances at you, his golden eye searching your face. "Why aren't you downstairs? Rhys will be... worried if his favorite shadow goes missing during his own Solstice party."

A small, genuine smile touches your lips at the mention of your brother. You shrug, keeping your gaze fixed on the horizon. "Why aren't you downstairs?"

Lucien pauses, the sharp, defensive lines of his face softening. He lets out a huff that might have been a laugh if there were any humor left in it.

"You got me there."

You hum in soft victory, a small, sad smile playing on your lips. You turn fully toward him, the wind whipping your hair across your face. You decide to bypass the pleasantries; they are useless tonight.

"Are you okay, Lucien?"

He is still for a long time, his gaze drifting back to the stars, his jaw tight. He nods, though it's a careful, calculated movement.

"I am... I suppose. Confused. But," he pauses, his voice dropping to a low, hollow tone, "I always knew something was different about the bond between Elain and I. It never... settled right. It felt like trying to force two pieces of the same puzzle together that were never cut for one another."

Your brow furrows, a flicker of genuine concern igniting in your chest. You step an inch closer, the cold of the winter air fading into the background.

"What do you mean?"

Lucien sighs, a ragged sound that seems to tear at the stillness of the winter night, and he lets out a low, frustrated growl. He presses his palms against the cold stone of the balcony railing, his posture stiff with the weight of his revelation.

"You know," he says, his voice strained, "it's like when you look at someone or something, and you just know, deep down, that it's not in the right spot. Like a female being held by a male during a dance when the rhythm is all wrong, or a fork set on the wrong side of a plate."

You nod softly, your eyes fixed on his profile as you try to grasp the metaphor he is using to describe the hollow existence of a manufactured bond.

He lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh, and despite the ache in your chest for him, the sound of it—rare and melodic—makes you smile. "I know," he admits, glancing at you with a wry twist to his lips, "I sound crazy, don't I?"

You shake your head immediately, reaching out to rest your hand gently over his on the railing.

"No," you say, your voice steady and firm. "I understand." You take a breath, deciding to voice the truth you've observed from the shadows of your own life. "Whenever you saw Elain with you, you knew it wasn't right. But when she was with Azriel... you knew inside that is where she was always supposed to be."

Lucien goes still. He glances down at your hand resting against his, his golden eye searching your face as if looking for a trace of pity, but finding only quiet understanding. A long, shaky breath escapes him, and he finally offers a slow, solemn nod.

"Yeah," he whispers, the word heavy with the finality of it all. "That's exactly it."

The silence stretches between you again, but it feels less like a burden now and more like a shared secret.

You can feel the cold of the solstice air, but the presence of the man beside you—broken yet somehow still standing—holds your focus entirely.

The cold air on the balcony felt less biting now, replaced by a sudden, electric stillness. Lucien stared up at the vast, uncaring expanse of the winter sky, his jaw working as if he were trying to swallow the ache in his throat.

"Do you believe," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the wind, "that the Mother has made someone for me? Truly?"

You followed his gaze, tracing the familiar constellations that had watched over your own life, your own long years of feeling like a ghost in your brother's court.

You didn't answer right away, letting the quiet settle between you. "I believe the Mother makes someone for everyone," you said softly, your eyes searching the dark. "It just depends on if it will be in this lifetime, or a different one."

Lucien's gaze shifted. He didn't look at the stars anymore; he looked at you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of haunting grief and a fragile, burgeoning hope. He took a breath, his voice catching as he breathed your name.

You turned to him, the name hanging in the air like a promise. Before you could even blink, he moved.

He closed the distance between you in a heartbeat, his hands coming up to cradle your face as he pressed his lips to yours. It was a soft, tentative kiss—a question asked in the dark.

You were too shocked to move, your hands frozen at your sides as the contact stunned you into stillness.

Lucien realized his error instantly. He pulled back, his face draining of color, his golden eye wide with panic. "I'm sorry," he stammered, scrambling to put space between you, his hands retreating as if he'd been burned. "I didn't mean... I don't know what came over me, I—"

"Lucien."

You didn't let him finish. You surged forward, reaching out to tangle your fingers into the long, silk-like strands of his red hair. With a firm, decisive pull, you dragged him back down to you and pressed your lips against his again.

The hesitation in his frame vanished the moment he felt the intent behind your touch. For a split second, his hands hovered in the air, trembling, as if he were afraid to touch you, to claim you.

Then, you tightened your grip on his hair, tilting his head to deepen the angle, and the restraint broke.

With a low, broken sound in his throat, his hands descended, slamming firmly onto your waist, his fingers digging into your clothes as he pulled you flush against him.

He kissed you back with a desperate, starving intensity, as if he were trying to rewrite the last few years of his life in a single moment, searching for a place where he finally, truly belonged.

The air in the room is thick, charged with the sudden, jagged shift from grief to something raw and consuming.

He doesn't break the kiss, even as he begins to walk, his movements forceful and guiding. You are forced to stumble backward, the backs of your legs meeting the edge of the bed before you tumble onto the mattress.

You scramble upright, but he's already there, looming over you, his eyes dark and dilated, his golden eye searching your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

"I don't want you thinking I'm doing this as a distraction," he says, his voice ragged, stripped of all its usual, guarded composure.

"I don't want to use you to drown out the noise in my head, because you—Gods, you have no idea. For all these years, I thought I was waiting for someone who didn't exist, someone who was only a shadow cast by a curse, but then you... you were right there. You were always right there, and I was so blind, so stupidly, painfully blind to the fact that the only thing that ever made sense in this entire god-forsaken court was you."

You reach out, your fingers finding the buckle of his pants. You don't say a word, letting his confession hang in the air, his words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate stream.

"I need you to know that this isn't about her," he continues, his hands shaking as they grip the edge of the mattress on either side of your knees.

"It's not about the bond, or the lies, or what was stolen from me. It's about the way I look at you and finally, for the first time since I came to this court, I feel like I'm not standing on a precipice. I feel... I feel like I might actually be home. And if I am, I want to be worthy of—"

You stop him.

You finish the buckle, the leather sliding through the metal loop with a sharp click, and you push his trousers down.

He gasps, his hands clenching into the sheets as you look up at him, your gaze daring him to keep talking.

Then, you lean forward, your lips grazing the head of his cock before you take him fully into your mouth.

Lucien's head snaps back, a sharp, guttural moan ripping from his throat, his hips jerking involuntarily against you.

His hands release the bedsheets to tangle painfully into your hair, holding you firm, his words silenced by the sudden, exquisite friction.

He is silent now, save for the hitching of his breath and the frantic, rhythmic hitch of his body, finally forced to let the physical weight of his need drown out the chaos of his mind.

The friction is relentless, a sweet, drowning ache that seems to purge the room of all its past shadows. Every time you take him deeper, circling your tongue around him, Lucien's composure fractures further. His moans are low and wrecked, turning into a fevered, breathless ramble.

"I want to take you out," he gasps, his hands sliding through your hair, tugging gently to keep you right where he wants you. "Properly. Not in the dark, not hiding away. I want to show everyone what I've found. I want to take you to the coast, or the mountains, or anywhere that isn't here, just so I can have you to myself for a week, a year, a lifetime—"

You choke slightly on him as he grinds harder against your mouth, his words blurring into a desperate, needy mantra. He's unraveling, pouring out years of pent-up longing, and you realize he needs to stop thinking and start feeling.

You pull back, your lips slick and parted, and scramble up onto your knees until you're looming over him, your eyes locking with his amber gaze.

"Take me out tomorrow," you command, your voice low and dark with intent. "I want you to fuck me tonight."

Lucien's breath hitches, his golden eye darkening until the pupil swallows the iris.

A slow, dangerous smirk tugs at his mouth, and he looks up at you from his tangled nest of blankets. "Isn't it normally the other way around, love?"

You offer a sharp, predatory smile of your own. Without a word, you shift your weight, pushing against his chest until he falls back against the pillows.

You climb over him, straddling his hips, your legs parting to press firmly against his sides. You lean down, capturing his lips in a kiss that tastes like salt and sudden, fierce hunger.

Lucien props himself up on his elbows, his smirk widening as he feels the heat of you through your clothes. He shifts beneath you, his hips catching yours in a rhythmic, deliberate grind that sends a shiver of anticipation straight through your spine.

"You have," he murmurs against your lips, his voice dropping into a growl as he reaches for the fastenings of your bodice, "far too many clothes on."

The air in the room shifts, the heavy, suffocating weight of the night finally beginning to lift, replaced by the friction of skin and the sharp, jagged intake of breath.

Lucien's hands are relentless, his fingers trembling slightly as they work at the ties of your bodice, his eyes never leaving yours. When the fabric finally gives way, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his golden eye searching your face, his pupils blown wide.

"I don't want to rush this," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rolls over your skin. "I want to remember every second of you. I want to know that you are here, and that you are real."

You reach for him, your hands finding the hem of his tunic. You pull it upward, over his head, discarding it into the shadows of the room. When your hands map the sudden expanse of his chest—the hard, defined muscle, the heat radiating from him—his breath hitches.

He groans, a sound that is half-pleasure, half-surrender, as he leans into your touch, his head dropping back against the pillows.

He turns then, rolling you beneath him, his movements fluid and intentional. He moves with a newfound focus, his hands sliding down to the fastenings of your skirt, his touch reverent as he navigates the layers that have kept you apart all night.

He pauses only once, his gaze locking onto yours which looks like a silent, searing question, before he strips away the last of your barriers.

When he is finally hovering over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, he leans down, his lips ghosting over yours before he whispers, "Finally."

He dips his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your neck, his tongue tracing a slow, agonizing path that makes you arch against him, your hands fisted in his hair.

Lucien moves with a desperate, reverent hunger, his lips trailing a scorching path from your collarbone, down the hollow of your throat, and lower still, mapping every inch of your skin as if memorizing you.

When he finally settles between your thighs, he pauses, looking up at you. His golden eye is blown wide, dark with a raw, primal intensity that leaves you breathless.

You don't wait for him to move; you reach up, fingers trembling slightly as you pinch and tease your own nipples, the friction sending sharp, jolting sparks of electricity straight to your core.

His gaze drops to your hands, then back to your face, his jaw tight. With a low, guttural sound, he ducks his head, his tongue flicking out against your most sensitive skin.

You gasp, your back arching off the mattress as the sensation hits you like a tidal wave. Your name, in his voice, a broken, needy sound, is lost in the sudden chaos of your own moans.

You reach down, your fingers tangling into his long, red hair, pressing his face firmly against you, guiding him, demanding more of that agonizing, perfect pressure.

"Lucien," you gasp, the name a plea, a command, and a confession all at once.

He doesn't hold back. He answers your touch with a greedy, rhythmic persistence, his tongue finding every spot that makes you shatter.

Your fingernails rake against his scalp, pulling him tighter, needing to feel the sheer, unadulterated weight of his devotion as you lose yourself to the rhythm he's creating, letting the world outside—the Solstice, the court, the pain of the past—dissolve into nothing but the friction between you.

Your hand slides down, your palm pressing firmly against his back, anchoring him as you grind your hips against his face. The friction is electric, a steady, desperate rhythm that draws a jagged moan from your throat.

Lucien tilts his head back, his golden eye hooded and blazing, and he rasps against your skin, "Good girl. Ride my face."

"Lucien," you breathe, his name a shattered confession as the pleasure begins to bloom, sharp and blinding.

Without breaking his rhythm, he slides a single finger inside you. You gasp, your hips hitching upward at the sudden, intrusive heat of it. He pauses, leaning back up to look at you, his thumb tracing the slick warmth of your entrance.

"What, love?" he asks, his voice thick with a possessive, dark curiosity.

You can't think, only feel. You whine, arching toward him, desperate for the tether of his mouth. He smiles—a slow, wicked curve of his lips—and captures your mouth in a kiss that tastes like ruin and salvation.

He slips in a second finger, his pace turning ruthless, methodical. "Fuck," he mutters, the word vibrating against your inner walls, "you're so tight."

You nod, your breath coming in uneven, ragged hitches, your fingers digging into the sheets. "Just for you," you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of your own unraveling.

Lucien stops, a low, primal growl vibrating in his chest as he looks back up at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying intensity. He begins to finger-fuck you harder, a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Yeah, love?" he growls, his voice dropping an octave. "All this just for me?"

"Always been for you, Lucien," you manage to choke out, your head falling back as you feel the tremors starting, the world narrowing down to the friction of his hand and the promise of what comes next. "I've been waiting for you."

He kisses you then, deep and bruising, silencing the rest of the world. "I guess," he murmurs against your lips, "I shouldn't keep you waiting."

You shake your head, your body coiled tight, balanced on the very edge of the precipice. You are seconds away from shattering, every nerve ending screaming for release, when he suddenly withdraws his fingers.

A sharp whine of protest tears from your throat, but before you can even register the emptiness, he is there—his cock, thick and hot, pressing against your entrance. With one smooth, deliberate movement, he slides inside you, filling the void completely, and the world simply ceases to exist.

Lucien freezes, the sudden, overwhelming friction of you against him catching him off guard. He buries his face into the sensitive crook of your neck, his breath hitching, and a raw, guttural moan tears from his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated need that vibrates against your skin.

You arch into him, a silent, desperate invitation. That small, instinctive movement is all he needs.

He begins to move, slow at first, then with a rhythmic, driving force that demands everything from you.

He reaches up, his fingers sliding between yours, and firmly pins your hand to the mattress above your head, anchoring you, refusing to let you escape the intensity of the moment.

"Look at you," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly whisper against your skin as he keeps a punishing, steady pace. "So damn beautiful, falling apart for me."

You gasp, your hips hitching upward to meet him, and he lets out a jagged laugh, his hips slamming into yours.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, his tone shifting into something possessive and dark. "Give me all of it. I want to hear you say it—tell me who you belong to when you're like this."

"I'm yours," you cry out, the words ripped from your lungs as he drives deeper, faster, his rhythm becoming a demand you're only too happy to meet.

"Good," he growls, his mouth finding yours in a bruising, hungry kiss. "You've spent so long waiting, haven't you? Let me show you exactly what you've been missing." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his golden eye wild and dilated, his face flushed with the exertion.

Suddenly you gasp as you feel Lucien flip you over and he starts fucking up into you as he hold you above him. You moan loudly as you try to move but Lucien will growl and take one hand off to smack your ass forcing you to stay into place.

His hands, calloused and warm, find your hips, anchoring you as you ride the rhythm of his body. Your head falls back, a ragged, breathless moan escaping your lips as the friction builds, sharp and electric.

Lucien's gaze is locked onto yours, his amber eyes burning with a possessive intensity that leaves no doubt about who he wants in this moment. As he shifts, granting you that small, heady spark of control, you lean down, pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is deep, fueled by the primal heat between you, and you grind against him, feeling the delicious, heavy pulse of his arousal.

He shifts, reaching down to graze your clit, his touch deliberate and maddeningly skillful. The friction intensifies, the pleasure blooming behind your eyes, and your own moan mingles with his, a guttural sound that vibrates through your chest.

Suddenly, he moves with practiced, effortless strength. He sits up, his hands firmly gripping your waist as he flips you around, settling you against him so you are facing away.

His voice drops, turning into a low, velvet rasp against your ear, vibrating through your entire being.

"That's it," he murmurs, his tone shifting, turning dominant and steady as he begins to fuck you slowly, with a deliberate, agonizing precision. "Take it, my love. Every inch of it."

He leans back slightly, his breath hot against your neck as he sets a steady, deep pace, his movements measured to ensure he hits every sensitive nerve, keeping you suspended in that exquisite, teetering state just before the edge.

Your gaze drifts to the polished mirror mounted across the room, catching the reflection of your bodies tangled together. But as your eyes meet his in the glass, the world seems to tilt on its axis.

The sight of him—the way he watches you with such singular, devastating focus—collides with a sudden, overwhelming snap in your soul. The fog that had obscured the truth clears in an instant, the tether that had been pulling you toward him all this time wasn't just attraction.

It is the bond.

Lucien gasps sharply, his hips hitching as the mate bond slams open between you, raw and blinding. The connection surges like a dam breaking, filling the room with a hum of ancient, undeniable magic.

He doesn't hesitate; with a strength born of frantic, relieved certainty, he pulls you back, flipping you onto your back against the mattress.

He tangles your legs firmly around his waist, pinning you to him as he stares down, his face a mask of shock and fierce, burgeoning joy.

"You feel it too, right?" he whispers, his voice trembling with a vulnerability you've never heard before. "Tell me you feel it."

You nod, unable to find your voice, your breath hitching as your fingers tangle into his copper-toned hair, pulling him closer. He lets out a ragged, shaky laugh, his forehead resting against yours.

"This," he murmurs, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that threatens to undo you completely. "This is what it should feel like."

He leans in, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that tastes of promise and eternity. He resumes his rhythm, but the nature of it has shifted—it is no longer just physical, it is a claiming.

He fucks you slowly, deeply, each thrust an unspoken vow as the bond pulls tighter and tighter. You meet him with every arch of your back, every desperate pull of his hips, until the friction turns into a tidal wave.

The climax hits you both at once, a blinding, synchronous shattering of sense and self. You cling to his shoulders as the waves take you, the bond singing in the quiet aftermath of your release, grounding you in the realization that you have finally come home.

The tension in the room, once sharp and demanding, settles into a warm, heavy blanket of intimacy. His kisses are languid now, lingering and reverent, as his arousal gradually softens within you, the post-climax exhaustion finally pulling at his limbs.

He holds you close, his body still flush against yours, his lips brushing against your temple, your cheek, your jawline, his voice a broken, adoring whisper against your skin. "My mate," he breathes, the words heavy with a lifetime of longing finally resolved. "My beautiful, perfect mate."

You find your hands tracing the line of his shoulders, your heart still hammering a frantic, joyous rhythm against your ribs.

A soft, disbelieving smile curves your lips as you look up at him, his face etched with such absolute peace that it makes your chest ache. "I can't believe I've never..." you trail off, shaking your head, your voice barely a thread of sound. "Why did it never come to me? Why was it hidden for so long?"

Lucien smiles—a true, unburdened thing that reaches his amber eyes—and gently nudges your nose with his own.

"The Mother works in mysterious ways, my love," he murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing pattern over your hip. "Perhaps she knew we weren't ready. Perhaps she wanted to make sure that when we finally found each other, there would be no doubt left. And make sure Tamlin's tonic was completely gone."

You nod, the truth of his words settling deep in your soul. You lean up, pressing your forehead to his, and close the distance between your lips once more.

The kiss is sweet, grounding, and full of a new, terrifying, wonderful promise. As you shift, your body moves with an instinctive, natural grace, grinding softly against him. The friction is light, but it's enough to stir a fresh, eager heat in him.

He lets out a low, appreciative hum, his hands sliding down to cup your waist. "My little mate," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes darken with renewed intent.

He shifts, his hips catching yours in a rhythmic, firm invitation, and as he begins to move, deep and slow, you both know with perfect, intoxicating clarity, the outside world can wait.

The responsibilities of the courts, the politics, the secrets—they don't matter. You and your mate won't be leaving this bed for weeks.

[hockeylover25]

heyy i really love you your work and was wondering if i could request for you to do something with my rhys and arrange marriage

Finally got part one to this done!! Go here, to read it!! And hope everyone enjoys🫶🏻