Dreamer In The Opal Skies

25 | She/Her Marvel | Top Gun | Eddie Munson | ACOTAR | TLOU

[aurorawritestoescape]

LET ME TEACH YOU

boyfriend’s dad Joel Miller x fem!reader

Summary: your boyfriend begs you to have anal but knows jack shit about the act. Much to your surprise and pleasure, his dad steps up and teaches him. By example.

Tw: +18, mdni, smut, age gap, soft!Joel, consent king Joel, reader calls him Mr Miller bc she’s respectful and bc it’s hotttt, size kink, competency kink, pussy/ass fingering (different fingers ofc), cuckolding, ass play, rimming, anal, lots of lube, f!masturbation, creampie, praise kink.

Word count: 5,4k

A/n: I think this is the porn-iest story I’ve ever written ahah It’s very depraved but also sweet in some places. I had a blast working on it and I hope you’ll like the result♥️ Soft Joel kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 Dividers by @/saradika-graphics 💞Enjoy, my lovely freaks🍑

MASTERLIST

“Number one rule of anal sex is ‘No rush’,” Mr Miller says to his son. The older man is sitting by your side, his hands gently kneading your naked asscheeks. You hold your breath when he spreads the globes of your flesh and exposes your pussy slit and butthole. Both entrances clench.

You’ve been going out with Jack Miller for almost a year and you know his dad Joel relatively well. He’s single, works as a contractor, loves spending his free time playing the guitar, woodworking, watching old action movies and going to the bar with his brother Tommy. What you haven’t known before tonight is how good his fingers feel when he pushes them into your asshole. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It all started with an argument. Jack was getting on your nerves, begging you to have anal.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, clinging to you like an annoying lap dog. He had just fingered you as a foreplay so you were sweaty and sleepy, lying naked on his bed. As always it had taken him too long. He had trouble finding the right rhythm and the right angle like he’d never touched your pussy before. While he was fiddling with your lady parts, a slideshow of your favorite porno scenes was playing on a loop behind your tightly closed eyes until finally you reached an underwhelming orgasm.

Probably relying on endorphins clouding your judgement, Jack began his anal pitch. He was promising you heavenly pleasure and an unforgettable experience, mostly turning himself on - a pole was proudly tenting his sweatpants.

Despite the passion in his voice, you were adamant in your decision. You’d never done it with anyone before and doubted that Jack was experienced enough to show you a wonderful world of anal.

“It’s not that simple, Jack! Jerking off to anal porn is not enough! What if you hurt me! You need to educate yourself first. You need to know… stuff.” You pulled the cover over your naked breasts and crossed your arms.

“What stuff?” Jack frowned.

“Exactly!”

You stared at the ceiling, contemplating getting dressed and going home. You were sure he wouldn’t let it go. And he didn’t.

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Just a tip first, you won’t even feel it. I’ll be super slow and then bam! I’m inside.”

BAM! No one in the history of mankind wanted to hear Bam! and their ass in the same sentence. So you shook your head and gave Jack an alternative,

“Why don’t you fuck my pussy?”

Jack palmed his clothed boner with interest but then shook his head, doubling down.

“Baby, pleaseeeeee..”

Nothing extraordinary would have happened if Jack hadn’t kept nagging and whining, pleading you to give him your butt. You kept saying ‘no’, he kept begging. It got so annoying that you decided to leave but before you sat up there was a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Dad,” Jack grumbled and got up. He adjusted his hard cock and you pulled the bed cover higher, covering your chest.

“What’s up, dad?” Jack said, annoyed by the interruption.

“Can I …?” Mr Miller stepped into the bedroom. You swallowed loudly. It was weird to be completely naked under the sheet in front of your boyfriend’s father.

“Sorry for intrudin’, sweetheart,” he said, turning to you and then to his son. “Jack, I can’t listen to it no more! Don’t you get what she’s sayin’?”

“Dad, what the hell?” Jack’s cheeks grew red, he was shifting on his bare feet, throwing nervous glances at you. And you definitely shared his confusion.

“I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ I swear. These fuckin walls are cardboard thin. You were whinin’ like a little bitch, son. Sorry, sweetheart,” Mr Miller apologized to you again and then said the words that you’d never expected to hear from your boyfriend’s dad.

“Let me teach you anal.”

Jack was shocked and embarrassed. He was gawking at his dad with widened eyes while the older man was standing by the bed, towering over his son, feet planted firmly on the ground. He kept saying that he only wanted to help, gesturing with his big hands. To your surprise you immediately pictured those hands on your naked body.

You wondered how Mr Miller would teach you. Maybe he’d watch Jack and you, guiding you both, giving advice, or maybe he’d take matters (your ass) into his own hands. Those huge veiny hands. The thought made your core pucker and while Jack was asking his dad to leave, saying that he lost his mind, you pressed your thighs together under the cover, trying to alleviate the ache in your pussy.

“I couldn’t hear the TV, Jack! Only your pathetic attempts to put it in her ass. Sorry, baby,” Mr Miller looked at you, his hands raised palms to you.

“Don’t call her that,” Jack grumbled. He looked and sounded like a boy who didn’t want to share his toy truck.

“‘K,” his father nodded and turned at you. “Jus’ wanna help.”

He dropped his hands by his sides, his sad puppy eyes moving from his son and to you and back. Your heart swelled. Your pussy throbbed.

“Ok,” you said, surprising your boyfriend and yourself. Jack gawked at you.

“What do you mean ‘ok’?!”

“You want to have anal, yeah? But you got no clue what to do, don’t even lie, Jack! Let your dad teach us.”

That’s how you ended up in a position you couldn’t imagine being in your wildest dreams — lying naked on your front, your legs spread, your boyfriend's dad playing with your butt.

“Help ‘er relax,” Mr Miller says to his son, his voice soft and soothing, his tone casual as if he’s teaching Jack how to fix a lawn mower. Your boyfriend is seated in a gaming chair a foot away from the bed, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. When his gaze meets yours, you quickly look away. He doesn’t seem pleased, rather mortified. Whatever. You always thought that Mr Miller was hot, in a rugged and dilf-y way.

Once you had a dream about blowing him in their kitchen, your mouth full of his fat cock, his fingers tight in your hair, no Jack and his cuck gaming chair in sight.

“Draw ‘er a nice bath, give ‘er a massage, somethin’ like that,” Joel says as his calloused palm glides up and down the back of your thigh. You’re one big goosebump, his touch is electrifying.

“No harsh movements.” He carefully pushes on your inner thigh until you bend up your leg. Your hips open and slightly rise off the bed. “She needs to be pliant, ready to take you in her most vulnerable place.”

Jack swallows hard. Your cheek is resting on the pillow, your head turned away from Mr Miller, but you are seeing him perfectly in the wardrobe mirror that stands lengthwise the bed. He’s wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans. It’s not his home clothes and you wonder if he dressed like this for you.

Mr Miller’s salt and pepper locks curl up at the nape, he needs a haircut, but you like his hair longer. You imagine running your fingers through his curls, tugging on them while he’s plowing your wet needy …

“Are you comfortable, sweetie?” Joel interrupts your dirty daydream with a question, his voice soft and raspy. It could have lulled you to sleep if not for a finger that grazes your butthole, making you flinch.

“Uh-huh.” You don’t sound too sure.

“We’ll get there,” he says with a little smile and adds, “Together.”

While you’re slowly melting into the bedsheets from his gentle tone, Mr Miller turns to Jack.

“Another important thing is lubrication. You have some?”

It looks like Jack’s using all his energy to dissociate at the moment thus he misses the question.

“Huh?”

“Lube? You have it or I need to go get mine?”

You widen your eyes, picturing Mr Miller squirt lube on some lucky lady in his master bedroom. And to think you considered him almost celibate!

Your boyfriend blinks a few times, then gets up. You hear him rummaging through a mess in his nightstand drawer, mumbling the word ‘crazy’ before he throws a little bottle on the bed and returns to his chair.

“It should be warm,” Joel says, rolling it between his wide palms.

“May I?” His reflection points at your ass in the mirror and you nod with a quiet ‘yes’. Mr Miller opens the lid with teeth and moves your left asscheek to the side for better access.

“Oh!” You gasp when a slight cold glob of lube lands on your tight ring.

“Bit more.” Joel adds another squirt and then starts spreading the liquid around your ring with a tip of his finger.

“Ahhhh,” you whimper and bite your tongue immediately. Jack’s chair creaks.

“Feels good?” When Joel asks you the question you don’t see a point in lying so you say “yeah.” Wet arousal pools in your core, it’s a matter of minutes before it slides out of your hole and reveals how insanely horny Mr Miller is making you.

“We’re just startin’ and look at her response,” Joel says with pride in his velvet voice while his finger is slowly drawing circles over your asshole. “She’s enjoyin’ it. Even if we stop now she’ll remember the act as something pleasant.”

“Maybe we should,” Jack mutters but neither Joel nor you pay it any attention. Hot flames are licking at your core, the ache in your pussy growing so fast, you roll your hips against the bed, searching for friction.

Adding gasoline to your horny fire is the sight in the mirror in front of you — Joel’s sexy hand moving rhythmically over your ass, his plush lips slightly parted, his dark eyes focused on your puckered hole.

Mr Miller lowers his voice and asks, “Growin’ needy?”

Your eyes lock in the mirror. Fuck! A hot flash burns your lower belly when his black pupils meet yours. Sparks flying, gazes drawn to each other for a few long seconds, promising pleasure and trouble. The intense eye contact does something to you, drowns you in an ocean of lust, pulls you so deep you panic and hastily flick your eyes to your boyfriend who seems very pale.

“Sweetheart,” Joel calls you as if hating to share your attention with his son. You hum but don’t look at him.

“Do you give your permission for the next step? To open you up I need to eat your ass. Is that alright?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Both you and Jack answer but you are the one calling the shots.

“Yes!” You repeat louder and raise your brows at Jack. Your boyfriend lets out a defeated sigh and drops his head.

“Good,” Joel says and gives your butt a light pat before cupping both asscheeks and spreading them apart. Cold air laps at your holes and you shiver. Joel smiles, probably noticing goosebumps on your skin.

“We’ll start slow.” In the mirror you watch him unhinge his jaw, stick his tongue out and lower his head.

You gasp when Mr Miller slowly licks your tight butthole. “Oh my God!”

Joel chuckles and repeats the depraved action. Soon he’s licking your asshole gingerly, his fingers digging into your flesh with passion. You’re softly moaning, your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. You’ve never had your ass eaten and the sensation is incredible. You wish he’d get lower and take care of your leaking pussy but fuckkk you can come just from Mr Miller’s tongue dancing over your little butthole. So when he parts from your ass, your needy whine rings in the room.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

His wet lips are curled up at the corners, pride sparkling in his blown out eyes, Joel glances back at his son and announces,

“Now we gonna start openin’ her up with a tongue.” Your breathing hitches. You don’t see Jack’s expression because you can’t tear your eyes off Mr Miller in the mirror. “Gently push the tip inside her just so” — Joel leans down and his hot tongue prods at your ring, your mouth forms an O as you moan.

Joel mutters, “Slowly go in,” then his head begins moving up and down while his tongue slides into your ass deeper with every bop. He’s salivating onto your crack, the wetness dripping down to your pussy, covering your folds with the warm spit.

You are losing your mind over how amazing it feels, meanwhile Joel alternates between licking your ring and tongue-fucking it for what seems like hours or so you wish. His lewd slurping fills the room and mixes with your soft noises. You apply all your willpower to stop yourself from moaning like a whore out of respect for your boyfriend who is now sitting with his legs crossed, probably hard but too shocked to accept it.

“How you feelin’, baby?” Joel asks, licking his spit-covered lips.

“S—so good, Mr Miller,” you stutter, staring at him in the mirror with your half lidded eyes.

“See, she’s already gapin’ a little,” Joel says, showing your asshole to Jack.

“Hm-m,” Jack hums, his brows furrowed, his suspicious gaze trained on your ecstatic face.

“Now let’s add a finger.”

You squeak like a little mouse and your holes clench. Joel notices.

“Hey, don’t be scared, babygirl. You’re open nicely now. And I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?”

“Ok,” you reply and hold your breath.

“Nuh-uh. None of that. You should be breathin’, sweetheart.” He puts his warm heavy palm on your back, between your shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, giving you a rhythm.

“In— out—in— out.”

You follow his direction and soon your muscles relax, your eyes flutter close, your jaws unclench. It seems like your body is seeping into the mattress.

“I’m puttin’ one finger in.”

His voice is so quiet you barely register his words, barely notice his finger going inside your ass, miss a slight burn of the stretch, that’s how serene you are feeling.

When you finally open your eyes you see Mr Miller’s reflection thrusting his index finger in and out of your butthole, his eyes on your ring, his lip between his teeth.

“Wow,” you mutter, in awe of the hot sight and the new sensation. All your holes clench again and again, your pussy pushing your generous slick out and you catch yourself wanting Joel to fuck you.

"Another finger? Is that alright, sweetie?" With your heart pounding in your ears, Joel's raspy voice seems both close and far. You nod and mumble a shaky 'yes' before he inserts a second digit into your lubed up asshole. You moan, Joel growls, both at the same time. Your boyfriend curses under his breath.

"Hooooooly hell," you exhale against the pillow, clenching bedsheets with your clammy palms while Joel's scissoring your tight ring open. "This … it's amazing."

Joel pulls his fingers out of you and chuckles yet it comes out strained. You know it takes everything from him not to whip his cock out and fuck you right now. Jack seems to feel it, too.

"Dad, maybe that's enough?"

"No."

"No!"

Your yell drowns out Joel's reply. Your cheeks burning, lust clouding your mind and overtaking your body, you lift your head off the bed and glare at Jack.

"Mr Miller needs to... we need to learn what to do next. Right?"

Jack crosses his arms, his lower lip sticking out.

Completely disregarding his son's suggestion to stop, Joel nods at you and asks Jack as if it's some depraved sex ed class.

"She's nice and ready now. What's next?"

Jack blinks at his dad, a mixture of frustration and confusion plastered on his face. He shrugs. "I fuck her."

"Wrong!" Joel sits up straight and gives him a disappointed look. "Son, the most important thing about anal is consent."

You drop your head back on the pillow and nod with the 'obviously' expression meanwhile Joel continues.

"Even after you did all the necessary prep, you ask her again. And if she says 'no', you stop! Got it?"

You watch Joel in the mirror, his bushy brows furrowed, two obsidian eyes piercing Jack. He's not fucking around.

"Yeah."

"Huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack mumbles. He looks so pitiful now you get scared of your pussy turning into the Sahara so you hastily move your eyes to the mirror with Joel's reflection in it.

You watch and feel your boyfriend's dad lean down to you. His hot breath fans your naked back, sending chills down your spine, as he asks,

"Can I fuck your ass now, baby?"

Your voice is wanton and needy, you're almost drooling onto the bed, as you reply,

"Yes, Mr Miller. But..?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can I be on my back?”

Joel kisses your shoulder and coos,

“Sure thing.”

Your body buzzing with want, you slowly and awkwardly roll over. Your exposed tits jiggle as you get comfortable and Joel takes you in— your puffy pussy, your heaving belly, your nipples hard as diamonds, desire plastered on your face.

Jack nervously clears his throat and leaves his cuck chair.

“You ain’t really doing it, right?”

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or his dad but Joel is the one who answers,

“I’m teachin’ you two. And this is the most crucial part. You wanna go in now and ruin all the progress?”

Jack closes and opens his mouth, but when you shake your head at his attempt to intervene, your boyfriend plops back in the chair, looking gobsmacked.

“This is insane,” he murmurs and you have to agree. You’re feeling insanely good.

With a nonchalant expression on his flushed face Joel grabs a pillow.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You do what he asks and he quickly places it under your butt. When your hips are raised Joel hums in approval.

“Grab your knees for me, please.”

Like an obedient student you do it immediately.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His praise, his scent - manly and dizzying, his warm smile, his obsidian eyes set between your thighs — all of it makes your blooming pussy contract and a drop of clear slick beads at your entrance.

Joel smirks, his dark gaze darts to yours and then back to your leaky hole. He opens his mouth but words die on his lips.

Instead he takes a sharp breath and climbs on the bed, grunting. With your body trembling in anticipation you watch Mr Miller kneel by your propped up butt, unzip his jeans, his back now to his son.

Just for your hungry eyes, he pulls his cock out. Big, veiny, hard as steel fuck machine. Hnggg!

You clench your jaws, killing a moan that rises in your throat from the sight of his manhood. You see a drop of precum on the slit and your mouth waters.

“Need more lube.” Joel squirts a generous amount on his hand and then strokes his cock spreading the liquid.

You squirm on the bed, fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He wants to stick that huge thing where?!

Joel seems to read the worry on your face. With one hand around the base of his stiff shaft, he brings the other to your knee and gives it a light squeeze.

“If you want me to stop I will.”

You don’t reply, just stare up at him, fear and desire playing tug-of-war in your heart.

“See?” Joel gets his son’s attention but doesn’t look away from you. “This sweet thing is unsure but she’s bein’ brave and doesn’t stop me.”

Jack sighs with relief from behind Joel’s broad body. He probably hopes that you’ve changed your mind.

Then the older man addresses you.

“You don’t have to be brave for me or anyone else, ok?” You hum while warmth spreads in your belly, reaches your clit and makes it throb. You open your mouth but words don’t come out. Joel gives you a knowing smile and offers,

“How ‘bout I open you up again with my fingers? Two steps forward, one step back.”

Jack’s chair creaks unhappily when you breathe out, “Yes, please.”

Joel gives you a curt nod and sits on his heels, his cock still hard and waiting. His strong hand circles around the back of your thigh as he keeps it steady for you.

Jack’s view is blocked by Joel so he doesn’t see when his dad traces your pussy hole with his fingers and brings the wetness down to your ring. His eyes dart up to yours just for a second, you see lust and mischief there.

“Alright, here we go,” he mumbles to himself, easing two lubed up fingers inside you. This time you take them easily, dull pain of the stretch is present but also welcomed. You moan.

Mr Miller closely watches your face twisting with pleasure while his fingers are fucking your butt. You watch him back, suddenly swept by a feeling so strong, you forget how to breathe for a second. There's no one else in the room, in the whole world, only you and this big older man, giving you an unforgettable experience, filling the hole that’s never been filled and you don’t want it to end, hate for him to stop. Stop giving, taking, watching you melt for him.

Ahhhh! A scorching heat floods your belly and hits you like a tsunami. Your core walls clench once, twice, your head digs into the pillow underneath, your eyes close and a loud moan slips out of your mouth. You’re shaking and crying ecstatic tears, your ass squeezing Joel’s thick digits, your pussy contracting around nothing.

“D— did you just come? Jack’s cold tone brings you back to reality as if a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head. Still jerking with climax you snap your eyes open, your breathing heavy, and see Joel’s lopsided smile in front of you.

Fuck! Your cheeks and neck burn and you cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by unraveling in front of your boyfriend’s dad. With his fingers in your ass.

Joel comes to your rescue. He gently rubs your thigh with his paddle of a hand and coos,

“She’s one of a kind, Jack. The anal stimulation isn’t as pleasurable for women as it is for men. In the right hands though… you did wonderful, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, hiding a grin that’s about to bloom on your face, and grip your knees tighter.

“We can stop now if…,” Joel starts.

“No!” You cut him off and push your knees to your chest. “I want to be ready. For the real thing.”

“I’ll give you the real thing,” Joel whispers so quietly it’s barely audible but you hear. Your eyes lock as he plants his palm on the bed by your side and hovers over your lower half.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

After you say ‘yes’ Mr Miller glances back in the direction of his son.

“Jus’ the tip at first. Maybe only. Depends on how she takes it.”

He looks down at you with that soft but feral gaze of his and talks to Jack.

“Watch her face closely when you push inside.”

Joel’s hot leaky cockhead kisses your pussy hole and you gasp, your entrance winking at his manhood, inviting it to come in. Joel whispers,

“Only teasin’.” You smile and shake your head at the man. He gives you a wink and drags his tip down along the delicate skin between your pussy and asshole and then nudges your tight ring.

“If she scrunches her pretty nose, stop. Means she’s hurtin’.”

Joel presses his crown against your asshole and applies pressure. Your mouth parts when he starts pushing it into your asshole, the stretch far bigger than with his fingers. You take a few deep breaths, not stopping him, craving to be fucked.

“Yeah, breathe for me, baby. In and out. Like I taught ya.”

In! in! in! your pussy screams and throbs with the rhythm of your heartbeat, your body desperate to be ruined by your boyfriend’s dad.

Mr Miller pauses and closes his eyes, his forearm muscles tense with restraint, the veins of his hand that’s wrapped around his shaft are bulging. He speaks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“The most difficult thing now—is to control yourself — all you wanna do — is shove your dick deep inside her— to the hilt—- she feels so fuckin’ good.”

His arousal and your desire merge together and form an electric cloud around you two, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Mr Miller moves another inch deeper and you whimper.

“But you musn’t,” he grunts to his son or to himself. “You should be in control— think of her first and your pleasure second —Yeahhh?”

The last word sounds like a moan and you smile dizzily, ecstatic to see how much bliss you’re giving him. Joel pushes in some more and then looks into your eyes. “Wanna see?”

You nod eagerly and place another pillow under your head, propping it up to get a better view.

The sight before your eyes takes your breath away. Joel’s big hand wrapped around his girthy cock, the veins on his shaft thumping, glistening with lube. But the best thing is your stretched asshole, hugging Joel’s tip buried inside.

“Wow,” you breathe out. Joel smirks, his smile lopsided and boyish. He drops his head to your butt and asks,

“Wanna stop here? Done so good already.”

You crane your neck and glance at Jack, expecting him to scream ‘Yes! Stop! Now!’ but he’s hunched over in his cuck chair with a blank stare, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

You bring your gaze back up at Joel and purr,

“I want all of it.”

Joel nods and thrusts in.

Mr Miller’s fucking your ass like it’s been made solemnly for this purpose. His hands are gripping your spread thighs, leaving marks on your soft skin, his hips snapping against your asscheeks, drowning the room in the lewd Slap slap slap! Sounds.

By now you’ve lost all the composure and your loud moans are flowing freely from your lips, mixing with Joel’s animalistic growls.

“Yeahhhh.. good girl…she’s a fast learner… takin’ me like a champ.”

“Thanks, Mr Miller,” you mewl with your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel a second orgasm building. Hungry for it you lick your fingers, reach for your throbbing clit and start rubbing it while Joel’s steel shaft is massaging your insides.

“Lemme… want some help?” Joel asks, consent king as always.

“Yes, please.”

Not minding his son watching you two from the back, Joel brings his calloused thumb to your puffy clit and starts drawing infinities over it.

You arch your back, losing your mind over how amazing it feels. Your ass is full of Joel’s cock, but your neglected pussy hole is crying desperately. You look for your boyfriend behind Joel’s broad back. He still looks shell shocked, his widened eyes lowered, and you realize that he’s watching his dads heavy balls slap against his girlfriend’s asscheeks.

Opps.

“Mr Miller,” you whisper, staring at the older man again, “Could you..?”

You lift your hand, stick two fingers out and move them up and down, fingering an invisible pussy.

Joel flashes you a knowing smile.

“Gotcha, sweetie.” He glances back at his son and raises his voice, talking to you,

“You strugglin’, baby? Ok if I help you relax?”

You consent loudly so Jack could hear and the next second Mr Miller changes hands and his dry index and middle fingers easily enter your sopping pussy.

Yeahhhh! You whimper, so full of his fat cock and digits, it feels like you’re going to come apart at the seams.

Joel’s massaging your g-spot with two fingers, his thumb working your clit, his cock relentlessly rutting into your ass. You’ve never been fucked this good and you try to hold off your second climax, hating for the sex to end.

But Joel’s too hot, too experienced and soon you come with a wail, arching your sweaty back off the bed and clamping Joel’s hips with your thighs. Blinding ecstasy is coursing through your body, your cunt pulsing around Joel’s fingers, your asshole choking his cock so hard he stills.

“Here— we g—goooHngggg….” he roars, retreats his fingers out of your pussy and covers you with his huge frame. He pushes his face into your sweaty neck but holds his weight over your thrashing body.

“Where?” He chokes, his chest rumbling with groans, and you wrap your arms around his broad back and press your naked tits to him, mumbling into his ear,

“Inside my ass, Mr Miller. Please.”

His whole body tenses up over you and he begins squirting his hot cum deep inside your butt. The warmth of his load fills you more and more, every erratic thrust of his cock pushes the sticky spent back into you and you hold him tight, wishing to be stuffed to the brim. It doesn’t take long with how much he comes and soon his jizz covers your asscheeks and his balls, sticking them together like glue. You feel filthy and sexy, with your boyfriend’s dad busting inside you, the former having a perfect view of your asshole sucking the older man’s cum in. Too abundant it rolls down your crack and onto Jack’s bed.

Both of you are panting when Joel carefully pulls his cock out of your asshole and falls on the bed next to you, still fully clothed except for the pulled down jeans and boxers.

“Dad, put your dick away,” Jack grumbles.

“Yeah yeah.” Joel tucks his cock back in, leaving his jeans open. He sounds exhausted. You cover yourself with a sheet suddenly remembering that you’re naked next to your boyfriend’s dad.

You turn your head to him resting next to you, his forearm covering his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly, his leg dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s so handsome you want to bite him. The man had a full day of work and then rocked your world. You find it incredibly hot but also feel guilty for exhausting him even more.

You watch Mr Miller for a few moments, warmth spreading in your belly and chest, until he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and turns his head to you.

“Dad?” Jack calls impatiently, hurrying the man to leave but Joel doesn’t spare him a glance and asks you,

“How you feelin’, baby?”

He nods down at your pussy but you know he’s asking about your butt.

“I’m ok.” You squirm on the bed, trying to access your state. “A little sore but good.”

“Good,” Joel repeats with a warm smile. You’re staring at each other silently, his gaze soft and warm, grinning like two fools. You want to kiss him but stop yourself. It’s inappropriate.

Then you remember where his cock was just a few minutes ago and giggle.

“What is it?” Joel asks, his eyes dart between yours and then slide to your lips.

You shake your head, silence thick and loaded between you two.

Jack rips it apart as he clears his throat.

“Thanks, dad. Fucking hell. You can go now.”

He gets up from the chair and crosses his arms, frowning at the two of you. You wonder if he’s going to break up with you after this. Whatever.

Joel sits up with a grunt and gets out of the bed. He sways a little and you smile proudly — you did it to him.

“Thank you, Mr Miller.” You sit up, holding the sheet over your body. He zips up his jeans and winks,

“Don’t mention it, baby.”

Jack scoffs. Joel heads to the door but as he passes his son he pauses.

“Get her a wet towel. And some water,” he commands. “So .. if she took my cock, she wouldn’t even notice yours. You’re welcome.”

With that he pats his son’s shoulder and leaves.

Who needs Jack, amirite? Maybe Joel can teach them something else?🤔 Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story💞

MASTERLIST

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Joel tag @/libre-sol @roserxein

[millermouth]

steady hands

summary: You love being part of the community of Jackson. But when you try to learn how to defend it, one humiliating accident makes you realize just how useless you feel with a gun in your hands.

smut MDNI 18+ shooting instructor!joel, Jackson!joel, baker!reader, gardener!reader, jack of all trades kinda reader, grumpy!joel, insecure!reader, biggggg joel miller, size kink, enemies to lovers, grinding, kissing, dirty talk (as always), f!receiving oral, fingering, pinv, missionary, outdoor smut, mean to sweet joel miller, some pussy pronouns used, irresponsible gun handling, nightmares, age gap mentioned but not specified, joel calls reader lots of pet names, tiniest bit of brat taming || a/n: guys I can't even lie this was inspired by the song ill make a man out of you from mulan....enjoy!!! wc: 11k

The woods were still crisp for early summer. It was something you'd come to appreciate about Wyoming, after all. No matter how bad winter had been, or how slow spring had sprung, you could always count on a beautiful summer, and even better summer mornings.

But this morning was far from beautiful.

You were sitting with a few others from town, mostly newer folk who'd settled in and were looking for work to do. The woods were quiet around these parts, a couple miles out from Jackson, where the trees thinned just enough to make room for the patrols to see into the valley. It had been a lookout since the beginning, or so you'd heard. A small cabin with a slanted roof, a fire pit out front ringed with blackened stones, a target range cut into the dirt nearby, and guns and ammo stored in the basement in case of emergency and training.

Why you were here, when you could be baking loaves of bread for folks getting out of Sunday worship or sending actual lookout shifts off with their breakfast freshly made, was, well…because you'd started to feel a little useless.

Not useless exactly. That was probably unfair. You did have multiple jobs. You were a part of the community of Jackson. You had a few close friends and plenty of acquaintances. You got along with almost everyone. It was nice, feeling like you knew who took their coffee black, who liked the butt of the bread, who always tried to sneak an extra roll into their coat pocket when they thought you weren't looking. You gardened and sometimes even helped with the horses or the livestock.

But still.

There was a part of you that knew, if anything ever went to shit, you'd never be able to defend your town, let alone yourself. So you'd come out with a group to train up on an early summer morning.

But you sure as shit were terrible at it.

Luckily, the ammo you used on the training grounds were empty shells, nothing actually being wasted on your awful, awful aim.

Because an hour later, the glass bottle in front of you remained whole and smug on the fence line, catching slice of sunlight along its shoulder while the wood of the fence several inches to its left had suffered greatly.

It didn't help that the man that was meant to be teaching you was a grade A Asshole.

Joel Miller was many things. Strong, capable, brave. So many epithets that could be used to describe him. You'd even dare to add handsome if he wasn't always frowning at you or cursing under his breath every time you managed to miss something standing perfectly still.

But the main thing you wanted to call him, was Asshole. Though…you thought if you ever did to his face, it might just be the last thing you ever do.

He was helping a kid down at the end adjust his stance when you heard an argument from beside you about a bet.

“Bullshit,” one of the boys hissed. Matthew, you thought. Maybe Michael? He was one of the kids from town you'd seen around the stables with hair too long, cheeks still a little chubby, and an ego too big. “You did not get Maisie Bell to kiss you.”

“I didn’t say kiss,” the other one said, and in the corner of your eye you watched as he lined up his shot, one eye squeezing shut. “I said she would’ve.”

“That ain’t a bet.”

“It is if I’m right.”

“You’re not right.”

“Two ration cards says I am.”

“For Maisie?”

“For Maisie,” he said, then nodded toward the line of town below the ridge, where you could almost see the church roof through the trees. “And the redhead from the kitchens. Sheesh what I wouldn't do to my hands on 'er. Oh, and that new girl Dina?" he let out a low whistle, "She is so goddamn fine I could—"

The heat that went through you had nothing to do with the morning sun. It rose hard beneath your collar, crawling up your throat until your jaw clenched around it. It pissed you off. Dina was funny and charming and more than a hot piece of ass for some stable boy to run his mouth over. Maisie and Riley were nice girls too, both in your book club, both worth knowing for more than the curve of their mouths or the sway of their hips.

“Maybe you two should spend less time betting on girls who wouldn’t touch you for a warm bath,” you spat, turning toward them, “and more time actually practicing—”

But you'd turned without lowering your gun.

Worse— you'd turned without taking your finger off the trigger.

A loud sound cracked through the clearing.

It wasn't like a typical gun shot, just a sharp, quick pop that punched the rest of your sentence out of your mouth.

Michael grabbed his shoulder and stumbled back, knocking into the rack behind him. A glass bottle tipped from the table and burst in the dirt by his boot, spraying green shards through the dust.

For one second, no one moved.

Then he said, “Ow—fuck!”

Your hands were still around the shotgun, finger still squeezing the trigger, your body stuck in shock.

The kid beside him lowered his own gun in a hurry. A low muttering started to rise from around you— someone else asked if Michael was all right, and Michael, pale and furious and embarrassed, said, “She shot me!"

"Think it's more of a graze—" someone was saying, pulling at the torn cap of his sleeve.

More voices began to overlap as people clustered around him, worry amplifying the noise until you couldn't hear anything because of the panicked buzzing in your ears.

"Give me that."

You blinked to your right. Joel Miller was looming next to you, a thunderous look over his features.

You looked down at the shotgun still in your hands, a gasp running through you.

Your fingers opened at once as if you'd been burned by the wooden barrel. The shotgun dipped toward the ground, and Joel caught it before you could swing wrong again. He took it from you with a look that made your stomach hollow out.

Your mouth open and shut, your voice quiet and lost to the rising murmur around you: "I'm—I'm so sorry—"

Joel didn’t answer. He checked the shotgun with a hard jerk of his hand, jaw tight, eyes not leaving the chamber until he was sure. Then he bent down, grabbed your pack from the dirt, and pushed it into your arms.

“Go.”

You froze with your hands around the straps. A burning, icy thrill ran through your spine, your skin lighting up in humiliation.

“I got no use for kids who don't give a shit about rules or make habits of gettin’ other people killed,” he said. “Go on now. No use to me here.”

You didn’t even think you could speak if you wanted to. You looked down at your backpack, torn and duct-taped in spots, the top strap sewn back down at least ten times since you'd gotten it.

You'd shot someone. What if it hadn't been a blank? What if it hadn't just grazed?

“I—”

“Don’t wanna hear it,” Joel cut in. “Go tell Jesse you're done for the day. He’ll take ya home.”

You bit your lip so hard you tasted copper and nodded, turning away.

For the next two weeks, you went back to being useful.

That was the word that seemed to dig its way into your head, after all. Useful. You baked loaves in the morning with flour dusted up your forearms and dough stuck beneath your fingernails. You wrapped bread in cloth and stacked it on the front table before the church bell rang. When you were done, you gardened the weeds that to creep into the squash beds and watermelon patch, and spent the late afternoons mucking stalls. You went to bed so exhausted you barely thought about what happened at the range.

Michael was fine, of course. He'd come by to apologize for his words the next day with Maria's stone face behind him. You apologized too, made sure he was really okay. Offered him a free bagel or two in exchange for maiming him.

Sometimes you saw Joel.

He didn't laugh or pat your arm understandingly the way the others did when retelling the story that of course made its way around town like wildfire.

He hardly looked at you at all, really. And at first you were grateful for it, too embarrassed to even meet his eye if he ever came by the stables for the horses before training or patrol up in the mountains. You'd run and hide before he even got the chance to spot you, truth be told. And when he came by the bakery, you'd disappeared into the back so fast that one time you’d knocked over an entire sack of rye flour in your haste to vanish.

But by the third week, it'd began to piss you off. Because it was one thing to be ashamed—and you were. But Joel was walking around town like you were something to be scraped off the bottom of his boot. It began to put a sour feeling in your stomach, the fact he had so much power to make you feel so small. Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid glare and his silent brooding.

You stopped hiding.

The next time he came into the bakery, you were at the front counter with your sleeves rolled up as usual, tying string around a parcel of bread. Ellie was next to him as they entered, talking with her hands, telling him some story about Dina and a loose chicken that morning.

“Morning,” you said when they sidled up to the counter.

Ellie looked over, her green eyes brightening. “Hey.”

Joel said nothing.

You pulled down the ration bread from the shelf with their name and house number written across the paper wrapping.

Ellie grinned as you handed it to her, "Do you have any of those sweet rolls from last week?"

You hazarded a glance at Joel, who said nothing again.

"Sure do. You staying for breakfast? I could make some coffee."

Ellie perked up, looking at him. “Can we?”

“No,” Joel said stiffly.

“Oh, come on—didn't you hear her say your favorite word, old man? Cofffeeeeeee!" she sung out before huffing a breath, "Do I need to get your ears checked by the nurse again?”

“We got work.” he grumbled, ignoring her jab.

“You always have work.”

“Funny how that happens.”

You reached for the tray beneath the counter and set a couple rolls out, taking your time. “There’s fresh icing too from this morning, I just need to drizzle it on.”

You went into the back, grabbing the small bag of sugary sweet icing you'd made, and began letting it fall in a steady cascade onto the sweet buns.

Ellie leaned both elbows on the counter. “See? Now we have to stay. It would be rude not to.”

You pretended not to notice how Joel's jaw ticked under his beard.

“She makes a good argument,” you said, sliding the small plate toward Ellie next to their wrapped weekly bread loaf.

Finally, those dark eyes landed on you. It was quick and could almost pass off as an accident. A muddling of color that shown in the morning light, his mouth flat. The same hard set to his face as always. But you smiled back anyway.

Because fuck him.

Ellie took one and barely hesitated before taking a giant bite, delighted. “Thank you.” she said with her mouth full.

You looked away quickly, back at Ellie. “Anytime.”

Joel reached into his pocket and set the ration slips on the counter. His hand was close enough that you could see the scar across one knuckle, the dust caught in the creases of his fingers. He took the parceled bread from the counter, leaving the second sweet bun untouched.

"Let's go, Ellie." he said stiffly. Before you could even call goodbye, they were walking out the shop, Ellie throwing you an apologetic glance and a wave of her hand as she stuffed the roll into her mouth.

You picked up the rations he left, and for a moment, thought about chucking that leftover roll at the back of his head as he disappeared from view.

Instead of learning how to shoot guns, you began learning how to take care of them.

Learn it from the inside out, you told yourself.

And to be fair, you picked it up rather quickly. Quicker than you’d picked up aiming, anyway. There was a comfort to it that shooting never gave you, all the pieces laid out on an oil-stained cloth in front of you, metal pins and springs and screws set in neat little rows beneath your hands. There was no bottle on a fence line waiting to make a fool out of you here in the small rec room of the cafeteria after the dinner shift had come and gone.

Tommy Miller taught the class every other night, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and voice patient and kind as he showed you and a few others how to take a handgun apart and put it back together. He had a way of teaching that was so different than his brother. He was patient, never made you feel stupid for asking questions. If a piece didn't fit, he'd simply say: “The gun’ll tell you what it needs most times. You just gotta quit arguin’ with it long enough to listen.”

And maybe, a small mean part of you liked the fact that the first time Joel Miller saw you there, he stopped dead in the doorway.

You'd bitten your cheek so hard to keep the smug smile from tugging your lips as he made his way across the room with a box of empty shells the night you were learning how to make ammunition. His eyes moved across the room to his brother, who patted him jovially on the back, and then the elder Miller's eyes came back to you. And you knew you didn't look very nice—smudge of grease across your cheek and your hair pulled haphazardly away from the gunpowder, thick work gloves that hardly fit and your plaid sleeves rolled up.

But he'd stared long and hard anyway. And then, as if nothing was amiss, his face went back to its hard, frozen state, and he walked out.

It was that night that you woke from an awful dream.

A horde of infected had broken through Jackson, tearing through everything you'd always loved and cared for. The gate was splintered open, the watchtower burned down to the ground. People were running through the street in their nightclothes, slipping in mud and blood, screaming names you knew.

You woke in a drenched sweat, feeling every bit as useless with a gun in your dream as you did in waking life.

But it was the kind of dream that didn't really feel like a dream at all. You'd felt like you were there, like the chill of night was actually on your face, like the roars of infected in your ears were truly bone-chilling. Your chest had filled with so much doom as you tried to fight back. But you couldn't. Every shot went wrong, every squeeze of the trigger sent another round into a fence post, a doorframe, the packed dirt beside an infected's rotting foot.

You could load the gun. You could take it apart and put it back together. You could clean the pieces until the metal shone beneath your fingers. You'd done it a hundred times now.

But you couldn't shoot.

In the dream, it had been all your fault. The deaths. Friends, loved ones, people who had waved to you from the church steps and leaned over the bakery counter telling you all about their latest town gossip.

Even Joel Miller.

He had died in the dream too. Because of you, and your awful aim, and your utter uselessness when it came to defending anything you cared about.

So, instead of trying to fall back asleep— afraid the dream might return—you got up and headed downstairs. Making your way through your dark house that was a small thing in the middle of town, you heard the floorboards creaking beneath your socks until you stepped into your boots properly.

You threw on your Carhartt over your nightclothes, fumbling with the zipper in the dark. It was just the start of summer now, but the mornings still could be biting. The mountains liked to keep their cold weather as long as possible, holding to it until the sun finally dragged it out when summer solstice came.

On the kitchen table, the shotgun you'd been working on for Tommy’s class sat wrapped in an old cloth, its oiled barrel catching a thin line of moonlight from the window.

You stared at it for a moment.

Then, decision made, you slung the strap over your shoulder and headed out.

Surprisingly, Joel Miller was awake at the odd hour as well.

As you walked down Rancher Street, you spotted him on his porch in the old rocker, one boot planted against the floorboards to keep the chair steady. A steaming cup of something was in his hand as he looked out onto the empty street. No one was up at this hour. You shouldn’t've even been up either. You wouldn’t have to open the bakery for another several hours, and the whole of Jackson seemed to know it. The curtains of the houses you passed were still drawn in the houses along the street, the chicken coops were quiet. Even the dogs that usually barked from behind fences must have been sleeping away the dawn with their owners still in bed.

It made your boots sound so loud on the road.

When his eyes caught the movement of your form coming toward the house, you saw him pause. His brows shot up high, then narrowed back into their usual glower. As you got closer and closer, it seemed so did his brows, threading deeper, causing harsher lines to form between them. The sun was just barely beginning to peek over the east mountaintops, the sky beginning to let go of its inky blackness with only a pale line of light touching the surrounding rooftops.

Joel Miller didn’t say anything as you stepped up from the street onto the path to his house. Or as you walked through his front yard. But his eyes never left you.

You tried—very hard and very much in vain—not to care what he saw as you walked up to the porch. He was an asshole, after all. An asshole who had told you he had no use for you, dismissed you for one mistake, and ignored you for weeks after. You shouldn't care if he saw some clumsy girl with a gun too big for her hands, or the bags under your eyes, or the matching floral sleep set beneath your jacket, long sleeves buttoned to your wrists and matching cotton pants tucked messily into your boots.

"Good morning, Mr. Miller." you said, stopping just at the bottom step of his porch.

He took a long sip of his steaming cup before resting it between his hands on his lap.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, kid?"

In any other circumstance, that could’ve been a polite greeting. But the flatness to his voice, the utter disapproval or contempt that threaded through it, made it sound exactly as he meant it.

You stared at him for a long, long moment.

He just stared back.

The rocker gave a faint creek under his weight. You could just smell the contents of the mug—coffee, for sure then. Bitter and dark how he liked it. You shifted the shotgun off your shoulder and set the butt of it into the dirt beside your boot, one hand rested at the top so it pointed up towards the sky.

Finally, it was Joel who broke the silence as he sighed, getting up to stand at the railing, setting one large, calloused palm against the wood as he looked down at you.

"Kid, I don't know what yer—"

"Shut up."

Joel Miller, for the first damn time since he'd met you, seemed to be stunned. His eyes went wide in disbelief.

"Excuse me, young lady?" he scoffed, standing still on his porch.

"Shut up—" you said, and if your voice shook a little, he made no notice, "and listen."

His eyebrows lifted. Then he looked down the empty street, like maybe someone else had heard you speak to him that way and he needed a witness. But there was no one, of course. Not at this hour. Only the closed houses, the pale line of morning over the rooftops, and a dog two porches down watching through the fence with its nose pressed between the slats.

When Joel looked back at you, he only gave a small shrug, one palm tipping up from the railing.

Go on then.

"I am a baker," you said curtly, taking in a shaky, deep breath, "I am a gardener, I am a sewer, I've become a damn good gun cleaner. I've been in Jackson for two years. I deserve to be here."

"Never said—"

"—and I deserve to learn how to defend it too."

Joel's eyes never left you as he heard your case. His face didn't change much, but at least it wasn't glowering anymore. He made no move to dismiss you or walk back inside even if he'd have enough reason to.

"Just because I had a shit first day doesn't mean I can't still learn, old man." you said. It wasn't a term of endearment. "Just because I'm not shooting bullseyes or killing infected yet doesn't mean I can't try, alright? I— I'm brave and—and—" you took another deep breath, "And you're going to teach me how to shoot."

"Like hell—" he stopped, scoffing again, and then went on, shaking his head: "Kid, you and I—clearly, we ain't jivin', why don't you ask another—"

"No."

Joel clicked his teeth, shifting his weight between his feet behind the wooden balusters.

"No one is as…" you glared up at him, the words searing your tongue before you could force it out, "No one is as good as you. If anyone is gonna teach me, it's you Mr. Miller."

There was a long pause, and Joel set down his mug, the steam wafting in the chilly summer morning. You almost wished you hadn't come, that you could go back to ignoring each other for weeks. What was it to you, what this man thought of you? You knew you looked ridiculous standing here, asking for help. You should be shouting at him, telling him he's mean and grouchy like a dog.

"Christ," he sighed, "you don't give up do ya?"

"Nope."

He pulled in another deep breath, looking up and down the road again for a long moment, before his eyes found you once more. You saw how they roved over your figure, over the muck boots and the white blue floral set, over your tan Carhartt, and then onto your face, where he paused for a moment before saying:

"Well first thing, don't hold the damn gun like that."

You looked down where you were leaning your palm over the muzzle of the shotgun.

"Gonna blow a hole in your palm, then I wouldn't be able to teach ya shit."

Your face burned, but you moved to grip the barrel lower and pulled the gun carefully across your belly, holding it with both hands now, pointed well away from either of you.

He nodded, lifting his mug and taking another sip of coffee, watching you, The slurp of the drink filling his mouth held the silence while the birds began waking up around you.

"You sure you'll be warm enough?" he asked finally.

You nodded.

"Alright. Let me get my shoes and we can hit the trails. Stay put."

You nodded again, and then—

"Joel?"

He turned.

"I um... I promise I won't let you down."

He took one more look at you, the harsh line of his mouth eased, eyes settling in a way you hadn't seen before.

He nodded once, and said: "I know, kid."

The sun was well over the mountain top by the time you made it to the ridge.

He hadn't taken you back to the training ground, whether it was to save you the humiliation of seeing the leftover shards of green glass on the ground, or because he liked the view better by the forgotten ranch, you weren't entirely sure.

It sat a few miles out from Jackson, tucked up where the land opened into a long slope of yellow grass and thin fence posts. One of the old checkpoint places, Joel had told you on the ride over. Not one people used much anymore, not unless they were cutting through on patrol or needed to seek shelter from a storm. There was a little graying house at the top of the rise with peeling paint along the porch rail and a tin roof gone dull from years of snow. Beside it, an old barn leaned slightly into the hill, its red paint worn down to bare wood in places, its door hanging open on a rusted hinge.

You barely registered the bird song that filled the skies as he set up a training course, the beautiful view of the mountainside and your horses grazing in pasture of the barn. Every now and then you saw one lift its head to look at you, ears flickering around, before bending down and resuming its peaceful morning loitering.

Joel was beside you, close enough that you could smell the pine of his body wash and the musk of sweat lining his shirt. He had been mostly quiet on the ride here, but not in the punishing way, you began to realize. Just quiet and focused as his is eyes kept moving over the land, the fence line, the barn, the empty windows of the little ranch house behind you.

“Lean just a little over now,” he said from behind your shoulder as you got into position by the wooden posts. “Use the fence as a brace. Easier when you got something steady under the stock.”

You shifted forward until the gun found the flat part of the top of the wood. The air was still chilly through the sleeves of your sleep set, the fence rough enough to catch on the ribboned cuff of your pant leg when you moved into it. Ahead, he’d pinned a target to the trunk of a tree, three rings and a bullseye in the center.

“First thing,” he said, “you don’t point that barrel anywhere you ain’t willing to put a hole through. Don’t matter if you think the thing's empty. Don’t matter if I told you it’s empty. You treat it like it’s loaded every second it’s in your hands.”

"I know, Joel."

"Repeat it," he said, a little firmer, and the way his breath brushed the side of your neck, it made you shiver. You didn't reaalize he'd gotten so close.

"Treat it like it's loaded." you muttered, leaning over the stock, looking down the line of the barrel.

"Good." he grunted. "Finger stays off the trigger til you're ready, keep both eyes open."

"You sure are bossy." you said under your breath.

"'Scuse me?" he chuckled, "Ain't you the one who dragged me out here at the brink of dawn?"

You rolled your eyes, but bent forward.

“Careful with that,” he said. “Eyes are useful for shootin’. Would hate for 'em to get stuck like that.”

You couldn't help the chuckle you let out—great, so he's got dad jokes too.

“Now stay where you are,” he said. “I’m gonna move the shotgun where it’s supposed to sit. Easier than tryin’ to explain it five different ways, alright?”

You felt your cheeks burn a little, but nodded.

He moved behind you, close enough that the warmth of him settled at your back before he ever touched you. One hand reached around yours, thick fingers closing over the fore end of the shotgun to shift it against the top rail of the fence, enough to settle it steady against the wood. His other hand came to your shoulder, guiding the butt of the stock into place. It was heavy, but bearable thanks to the support of the fence in front of you.

"Want it over your shoulder, not pushin' into the collarbone. S'gonna kick harder than a mule and you'll be hollerin' about bein' sore for days."

You scoffed a bit, but let the stock settle over the crest of your shoulder as he positioned it.

“Now press your cheek right here,” he said, moving his hand from the barrel to tap the side of the stock. You tilted your head, trying to place it right. You nearly gasped when you felt the thick press of his fingers on the other side your neck as he guided you into position without thought. Not rough or impatient, only warm, certain, his callouses catching lightly against your skin. "There ya go."

Your body became suddenly very aware of him from that one touch. The scrape of his jacket against yours as his chest came in closer, the weight of him behind you, the heat of him against your back.

"Stay still, you're squirmin'—"

"—am not—"

You felt the breath of a laugh over your shoulders, and it made your skin rise in gooseflesh. The target was becoming blurrier by the moment.

"Now—"

You held very still as you felt him line his body behind yours, his breath now against your neck, his voice low and gravelly like honey on hot asphalt.

“Think about all that bullshit you been carryin’ around,” he grumbled. “Starin’ daggers at me for weeks. Comin’ up on my porch tellin’ me to shut up, callin’ me old, actin’ like I decided you don’t belong.”

"Joel—" you protested.

"S'okay, didn't take none personal." he said as he stepped up even closer, one hand going to your hip. “Breathe in.”

You sucked in a shallow breath.

He clicked his teeth. “Try again. You know none of that is true, don't ya, darlin'? Let it all go here. Don't belong in that head a'yours.”

You closed your eyes, annoyed and a little embarrassed, and pulled air in deeper this time, taking in the smells of the open Wyoming air. Cold morning. Damp grass. Coffee on his breath. Mint from when he'd been chewing the sprig on the way there. Pine soap. The fence rail rough beneath the gun.

His breath was so warm against your cheek as he murmured: "That's it, now let it out."

You let the breath leave you, nice and long and through your mouth—and with it went the bickering on his porch, the shame of the range, the weeks of him not looking at you, the ugly little voice that kept saying you were useless no matter how many loaves you baked or horses you brushed or shotguns you cleaned.

"Open your eyes now, and squeeze that trigger." he murmured, lips brushing your ear. As he said the word, his hand pressed forward on your hip, long, thick fingers winding around the sensitive skin just under the waistband.

When your eyes opened, the sun felt a little brighter, the day a little clearer. The target sharpened against the tree, the black rings settling in your sight.

Your stomach dipped for one horrifying moment, and then—you squeezed.

The shot cracked across the ridge, echoing off the sides of the mountains. Joel was right—the butt of the gun kicked hard, but you only felt it jostle your body back into his, harder, the force caught by your shoulder instead of biting into your chest.

You gasped, everything happening so fast before you were blinking rapidly and seeing the paper on the tree ripped just left of center.

“Shit—”

“Not bad for a first try.” you heard him say.

"I wanna go again." you said, breathlessly.

“Jackson’s gonna be needin’ their morning bread soon,” Joel chuckled, but he didn’t move. “Tommy’s gonna be wonderin’ where his cinnamon rolls are.”

You smiled wide, the adrenaline of the shot still coursing through you.

As your breath settled, both of you were still leaning over the fence, your body pressed back into the hard line of his. His hand hadn’t moved from your hip. Neither had yours from the shotgun. It would’ve been easy, maybe, to step away. To laugh, to clear your throat, to make some comment about those cinnamon rolls or old men or how if he'd stop being so bossy you could've probably hit the bullseye.

But…you didn't.

You only tilted your gaze over your shoulder.

He was so close—so close you could see almost every gray hair in his thick beard like winter's snowy streaks in a dark sky. You could see every line on his plump bottom lip, the shining spot where his tongue had just passed over it.

"Thank you, Joel." you whispered, "For…"

You trailed off, because Joel wasn't looking in your eyes anymore. They were such a pretty hazel you'd never noticed, and were fixed on your mouth.

"You're welcome." he whispered.

Your lips parted lightly when he tilted his head over your shoulder, and he took that as invitation to lean in.

He was so warm.

Like kindled fire in a cabin, like the first morning of solstice. The prickle of his mustache brushed your nose as he took your lips with his, breathing you in so deeply it made your knees go soft beneath you. You let out a whimper, hands tightening around the barrel and grip of the shotgun, wishing so badly to put them in his hair, all over his broad shoulders and thick muscles.

He seemed to know exactly what you needed, his one hand coming up to take the gun from your hands, placing it quickly but carefully against the fence. He only broke the kiss to turn you fully towards him before his lips were on you again, hungrier and needier as he pushed his body into yours.

His hands were all over you in an instant, planted on your hips and squeezing you harder, making you whine under his touch.

Your tongue traced his bottom lip, teeth nipping, begging wordlessly for entrance, and he gave it so easily. So eagerly. He groaned, opening his mouth for you, letting you lick inside, suckling on his tongue before you nipped again at that nice bottom lip.

His hands were everywhere—under your jacket but above your cotton top, sliding up your waist and back down again, never settling for long. They were so big and broad, squeezing and groping anywhere he could hold.

Yours wound around his neck so you could drag him closer, breasts pushed to his chest, the layers between you suddenly unbearable. His jacket. Your sleep shirt. His flannel. It was too much fabric—too much of everything that wasn’t his fevered skin against yours.

How could you ever have thought he was such an asshole? This grumpy old man— this stubborn, bossy, impossible man, was just as needy as you. Maybe worse. All that silence, that staring. Those weeks of pretending he didn’t see you across bakery counters and barn aisles and muddy streets. He needed this as much as you did, someone to set him straight, yes, but also… to tell him he was needed and good, too.

You moaned when his hands traveled lower, both palms filling with the round flesh of your bum, dragging you up against him. One hand pulled up beneath your thigh so your leg was over his hip, opening you enough for him to grind the hard denim of his cock against you.

“Oh shit—” you gasped as your back got pushed into the rails of the fence.

He was thick. You could feel it even through his jeans, through the stiff seam and the metal of his zipper, the heavy shape of his length ground into the cradle of your legs perfectly.

Joel’s mouth left yours with a wet sound and moved to your jaw, then your chin, then the side of your throat. His beard scraped at your skin, his mustache rough beneath your ear.

“S’alright, darlin’,” he murmured, rocking into you again, slower this time, meaner for how much control he had over it. “Just needed someone to show you how it’s done, didn’t ya?”

Your nails bit into the back of his neck.

“Joel—”

“Been fightin’ me all mornin’,” he said, his mouth dragging lower, teeth grazing where your pulse beat too fast. “All damn month, really.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not with his hips pressed just right and his hand gripping your thigh harder, holding you open against the fence.

“S’okay,” he said, voice rough against your throat, tongue laving over your carotid. “I’ll show you how to take me just as good, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” you breathed, already nodding. “Yes, please, Joel.”

"What good manners you have, baby," he cooed.

Luckily he couldn't see the way your eyes rolled at that, but your mouth fell open as he bit down on the tender flesh of your shoulder.

"Oh!"

He growled, pleased, the sound vibrating up from his rib cage and against your skin before he push his cock into you harder than before. The fence post pressed into your back, a little painful through your jacket, his hands holding you tightly between it and himself.

“Tell me,” he groaned. “How long?”

"How long what, old man?" you tried to clipped retort, but it came out more like a whimper as his hands pulled you closer, dragging your cotton-covered seam over him harder. You had one hand thrown back over the fence rail to keep your balance, the other fisted tightly in his hair. Your head fell forward to watch where his lap met yours, thin floral pajama pants bunched tight where his stiff denim pressed into them over and over, the friction making your thighs tremble around his hips.

"How long has this sweet little pussy been wet —since we got up here, hm?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, which only made him laugh.

His head came up to look you straight in the eye, one hand going to the side of your face, thumb against your cheekbone, the wide breadth of his palm covering your cheek. His fingers dug lightly into the side of your neck as he forced your gaze back up to him. It was shockingly sweet for how menacing his smile was.

“Your little act doesn’t work on me, sugar,” he murmured, staring at your lips. “C’mon now. Tell me.”

You glared up at him, though it was a weak thing with your chest heaving and your leg hooked around his waist. "You're such an asshole."

He bent down to nip at your nose, "'fraid I think you might like that most about me."

The both of you were very still now, though you'd brought both of your ankles up to lock at his lower back, fully relying on him for balance. Your chest heaved with fresh lungfuls of air, finally catching up to what had felt lost and shallow before.

"And what about you?" you asked, tipping your chin up. "You really hate me as much as you act like you do?"

“Could never hate’cha,” he murmured, leaning down again, his voice lower now, almost too soft for the way he was still holding you against the fence. “Only thing I hate is how fuckin’ bad you make me want you.”

You blinked up at him.

"Is it really that much of a surprise, baby?" he added when he saw your expression.

"I mean—you—"

He was beginning to kiss you again, your flustered state seemingly invitation enough to resume his affection, gentler this time. He kissed your mouth softly, then the corner where the seam of your lips met, then up your cheek and over your brow.

"—you said we don't get along, that I should find someone else to teach me—that, that you had no use for me—"

Joel pulled back one more time, looking down at you. The hand that had been hooked under your knee came up to your face too, until he was holding your head between both hands, palms rough against your cheeks, fingers cupping the bowl of your skull.

His eyes moved over your face, and for once, there was no glower there. No hard set to his mouth. Just Joel, looking at you like the words had been sitting badly in his chest too.

"Should'a never said that, I know. I'm sorry. I was an asshole up at the trainin' range that mornin'."

"Yeah, you were." you pouted.

“Only said them things on the porch ’cause I know I shouldn’t want’cha like I do.” He shook his head, jaw tight, the confession seemingly costing him something. “Can’t fuckin’ help it though, baby. I can’t.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered.

"You're too young—" he whispered, "—too sweet for me. You're right, I'm old, I'm mean as a dog…"

Your delicate fingers wrapped around his thick wrists, holding him there, keeping his hands on your face.

“Truth?” you offered.

He nodded quietly.

Out there, you could just hear the breeze over the open fields around you. The soft nickering of the horses grazes, the birdsong of the woods beyond. It was awfully quiet where just you and Joel stood pinned against the old fenceline.

"I've wanted you for so, so long." you murmured.

His eyes flickered between yours, narrowing, almost disbelieving. Your grip on his wrists tightened.

"I have. And…and… I've been wet since we got here. Thinking about this—being all alone with you and—even if I can't fucking stand you glowering at me like that—"

He pushed his lips into yours again, but this time, it wasn't only the flame of hunger and eagerness, but the gentleness of tender affection.

“C’mere,” he whispered into your lips, hands sliding down your sides.

His hands were back on your body, pulling you closer, slipping under your jacket once more before finally reaching under your cotton night shirt. You could feel just how rough-hewn his fingertips were, how calloused and worn they were against the tender flesh of your body. But they felt so right, like this was where they belonged all along.

“You’re so soft, baby. Wanna feel how soft you are under these.” His fingers hooked lightly at the waistband of your cotton pants. “Take ’em off for me.”

You listened, of course you listened. He let your wobbly legs down gently from his hips, one hand staying firm at your waist until your boots found the grass again. Your knees felt useless beneath you, weak from the heat of him, from the way his voice had gone low and syrupy thick against your mouth. You reached for the ribboned hem of your sleep pants with clumsy fingers, and Joel watched you like he was trying very hard to stay patient.

The cotton slid down your thighs, catching for a second at your knees before you stepped out of them and your boots. Morning air touched your bare skin at once, cool enough to make you suck in a breath.

You started to pull your coat off too, but Joel caught the front of it in one fist and held it closed around you.

“You’re gonna get cold, baby,” he murmured, bringing you back into his arms to kiss you on the lips once more. “Keep it on.”

He was soon bending, kissing your chin, the soft skin of your throat, down your top and lifting it just enough to lick into your navel, making you giggle and squirm. He threw you a knowing look when you bit back a laugh at the crack of his knees, and you nearly opened your mouth to say something rude before his lips found your skin again.

He kissed lower, down the soft slope of your belly, until his mouth was pressed just above your mound where your panties still covered you. Stupid sleep underwear, you chastised yourself, suddenly annoyed you hadn’t thought this far ahead. But Joel didn't seem to care. He kissed the little bow at the waistband, something slipping from his mouth that sounded awfully like 'how cute'.

Your breath caught in the crisp morning air when his tongue dipped out over your cotton panties, right where your clit pulsed beneath. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, one thick finger coming up to pull the cotton aside.

“Why don’t you spread these pretty legs for me, hm?” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Or do I need to teach ya how to do that too?”

You scoffed, still in your head enough to want to bite back a curse at him, but he was already moving your leg for you, pushing your knee toward the fenceline until your boot found footing on the bottom rail. His eyes never left the damp spot darkening your panties.

As he pulled the cotton aside fully, he sighed, face tilting a little as he looked.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, nervousness fluttering in your belly.

His eyes glanced up at you, and your heart ricocheted into your throat. You felt bare. Exposed. Ready for him to turn cold again, to go back to that surly look and stone quiet like he’d only just remembered himself.

Instead, his thumb stroked once along your thigh.

“S’just so pretty,” he murmured. “Tryin’ to take my time, is all.”

Your mouth opened in another quick gasp as his lips pressed onto the swollen bud of your clit. You felt his tongue dip out lazily, curled like a basin for collecting the arousal that had pooled for him. He licked up and up and up, before suckling on your sensitive bud again. He moaned with you when your head fell back, your fingers digging harder into the fenceline where you held yourself up.

"That's it, that's it," he cooed when he pulled away to blow gentle air against your pussy. "What a good girl you are, just want a little taste before I put my cock in ya."

Oh god, the old man really had a filthy mouth.

He was diving back in again, now with a finger to prod at your entrance. Your knees suddenly felt wobbly, hardly able to keep you standing.

He licked and sucked at your pussy like he’d been waiting for it, messy and hungry now, no patience left in him. His finger pushed inside, thick enough to make you gasp, your walls clenching down around it as he groaned into you.

"Ohhhh…" you chorused together.

"Fuck, you're tight," he breathed.

"Oh god, Joel." you said at the same time.

"I know, I know," he cooed again. His voice had gone dark and syrup-thick, coated in arousal, every word dragged rough from the back of his throat.

“Just gotta open ’er up,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh before looking back at where his finger disappeared inside you. “Ain’t no way my cock’s fittin’ in here before I get you ready.”

“It will,” you chanted, hips undulating up into his mouth. “It will, it will—”

He moaned at your eagerness, crooking his finger before pulling it out to the first knuckles, and inserting a second finger. You gasped, stretched over his thick digits, the ache of it full and perfect and worse because he looked so pleased with himself. Because he knew exactly where to press, where to push, how to lave his tongue over your clit until your body was singing his praise.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, watching your face as his fingers worked deeper. “There you go. There you go.”

Your head tipped back against the fence post, wood catching at your hair.

“She gonna squeeze my cock this tight too, huh?” he murmured, mouth brushing slick over your clit. “She likes my fingers in ’er.”

"Yes, yes, yes," you whispered, your eyes hooded but forcing yourself to watch him. Your other hand carded into his thick graying hair at the crown of his head, nails scraping through, and he made a rough, pleased sound into you. Almost a purr. Almost a growl. His eyes fluttered for half a second before he looked back up at you, mouth wet, beard shining, fingers still buried inside you.

"M'so close, Joel, so so close, pleeeaseee…"

"There's those sweet manners again, baby. Why don't you go ahead and beg me some more? Maybe I'll let you come right now, and then I'll make you come again around my cock. Huh? Sound good? Let me hear your pretty little begging again, baby, go on now."

He said it all while panting, tilting his head up so his eyes could watch you. You put on your best pout, bottom lip sticking out so he could see how much you really really wanted it.

"Pleeeeease, Joel, please—" you mewled, "your fingers feel so good, so thick, please let me come. I'll be good, I'll be good."

"Good girl," he murmured, breath hot against you, "go on, let me feel her soak me. Come, baby,"

It felt like your belly had been waiting for the words. The overwhelming build finally tipped, the wave cresting hard before crashing through you all at once. Your body went molten as you locked up around his fingers, pleasure coursing through your veins in hot, licking bursts. Your eyes squeezed shut, your mouth falling open around a low, obscene moan you had no control over.

Joel rocked you through it, fingers pushing in and out, fucking you with them while his tongue pressed gently at your overstimulated clit until you were twitching and pulling away from his mouth.

When he pulled his fingers from your walls, you nearly fell to the ground, your legs unable to hold you up. Joel caught you before you could drop, hands firm beneath your thighs as he lifted you fully against him, both your legs winding around his waist now. Lazily, sleepily, you watched him shrug out of his coat and throw it down over the grass. Your eyes were still too heavy to take all of him in properly, so your hands did it instead—big shoulders, broad chest, thick arms built from hard work and long hours.

Just as much a part of Jackson as you were. Maybe more.

He could do everything. It made you a little sick with envy, even now, even with your body still humming from his mouth and his fingers.

Joel saw your face change, but he was busy lowering you onto his coat, easing you down into the grass instead of keeping you pinned against the fence.

“What is it, baby?” he whispered, one hand cradling the back of your head as he settled over you. “What’s in that pretty little head of yours?”

He was half watching you, half working open his jeans until his cock was freed from the denim, heavy as it bobbed, flushed red and bobbing thick between you as he leaned closer.

You licked your lips, reaching for him, but Joel caught you by the wrist before your fingers could wrap around him. You gasped in surprise, but he only brought your hand to his mouth, kissing each pad of your fingers one by one.

“Don’t think I’ll last too long if you start that,” he murmured. “Tell me what’s goin’ on.”

You shook your head. “Nothing. You’re just…you’re so…”

You sighed dreamily, distracted by the feeling of his swollen, wet lips against the tips of your fingers.

“Old?” he offered. “Cranky? Rude?”

Your mouth twitched. “Yes, and…”

He laughed a little, but you went on anyway.

“I was just thinking about how perfect you are.”

Now he really smiled wide, shaking his head before nipping at your index finger. "Think you've got the wrong man, baby," he groaned a little, and then leaned over you.

You shook your head again, winding your arms around his neck, one hand cupping the nape of his hair while your nails scraped lightly along his scalp.

“Don’t think so.”

He hummed, kissing you again, and began to roll his hips against you so his cock slid up your belly, heavy and hot against your skin. The kiss deepened, lips slotting together, wet and tender, tongues sliding slow as your hands tightened in his hair and his weight settled over you.

“I don’t know if you’re gonna fit,” you whispered when he pulled his hips back too far and the head of his cock slipped up through the seam of your pussy.

He licked his lips, looking down at you. “Told ya I’d teach ya, didn’t I?”

You smiled, nodding. “M’nervous.”

“Don’t gotta be. I got ya, baby.” His thumb brushed along your hairline. “We’ll start nice and slow.”

He did as he said, sitting back a little just so he could grasp his cock in one hand, the other still cradling your head, petting your hair where it had fallen across his jacket. The head of him notched at your entrance, wet with arousal and spit, but the difference between two fingers and his cock suddenly felt impossible.

“Easy now,” he whispered, kissing your lips. “Take a breath for me, honey.”

You did as he said, for once without some retort, and pulled in a deep breath.

What started as control quickly turned into a gasp as he pushed inside.

“Oh fuck!” you squealed, clawing at his shoulders over his shirt.

He chuckled, and you wanted to slap him.

“Come on now, honey,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your open mouth. “You’re all tensin’ up. Curl your toes. Deep breaths. C’mere, gimme a kiss.”

Your toes curled automatically, did your best to pull in another breath, and he leaned down to kiss you earnestly, swallowing the next rough sound that left you as he pushed in another inch.

His tongue licked behind your teeth. His chest pressed yours down into the coat. The weight of him made the ground feel farther away somehow, the grass cool beneath your hips, his jacket bunched soft and worn under your shoulders.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, rougher now. “Ain’t that so good, baby? How’s that feel?”

Your head fell back onto the collar of his jacket. “Soooo…full. Fuck.”

“Almost all of it,” he murmured, jaw tight. “Just a little more. Pussy feels amazing, baby. S’like heaven.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as he pulled back a little, your mouth opening in a small, helpless shape when the drag of him caught every tender place he’d opened with his fingers.

“Yeah,” he sighed, watching your face. “There you go. She’s warmin’ up to me now.”

One of his hands slid from your hair to your throat, resting just beneath your jaw, not squeezing, only holding you there while his thumb brushed the jumping line of your pulse. "think she's even startin' to like me."

“You’re so corny,” you groaned, but your chastising cut off when he slid his cock in all the way, his heavy balls pressing against your ass at last.

“Oh—” you choked. “Oh, oh oh.”

Joel nodded like he felt it too, like he needed the confirmation just as badly as you did. Then he kissed you again, and you let him, loose and dazed beneath him, tongue sweeping out to taste his. You could still taste yourself there, musky and sweet on his mouth, and it made your walls contract around him.

Your body was starting to understand him now. The first sharp stretch softened into heat, your muscles loosening by degrees, letting him settle deeper until the fullness became less frightening and more necessary.

“Fuck,” he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. “You okay? How’re you feelin’, baby?”

“So good, Joel,” you whispered, fingers flexing in the fabric at his shoulders. “So good. Please, please fuck me.”

He groaned, ducking his face into your neck. “Gonna give it to you good, baby.”

He started slowly. Though, you weren't sure if he was exactly gentle. He was so big and there was too much of him for anything to feel really gentle. But he was careful, controlled in the sawing of his hips that pulled halfway out, and then pressing back in. Each stroke was concise, your fingers digging harder into his shirt, each little hiccup of air pressed from you.

His coat dragged beneath your back, the grass brushing cold against your bare thighs. Your sleep top had ridden up beneath your own jacket, leaving your stomach exposed to the morning air, but Joel was warm over you, broad and heavy and panting against your throat. Every time he pushed in, your body shifted against his, the ground catching you, the earth taking what the fence no longer had to.

The open air of the field collected your simpering sighs and loud, mewling moans, the day warming around you so that you saw sweat beginning to dapple his forehead when he brought his head up to look at you.

“So pretty, baby,” he breathed. “Such a pretty girl takin’ cock so well.”

You cried out when he changed the rhythm, picking up speed.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, his voice catching rough in his throat. “God, you feel so good, baby. Pussy feels like it was made for me, huh?”

“Yes, Joel, yes—ohhh, yes, yes, yes.”

“She’s tightenin’ up on me again,” he panted, eyes dragging over your face. “Gonna come for me already? What a good girl you are. C’mon, I wanna feel it around my cock.”

Your eyes widened when Joel’s hand slid down your body again, over your thigh, hooking it higher until your leg was thrown up over his shoulder. Your body folded beneath him, his cock reaching deeper as he leaned down into you.

“Fuck!” you squealed, holding tightly onto his hair.

He looked down at you with a little pout, a mock-sympathetic expression pulling at his mouth.

“Doin’ so good,” he murmured. “Takin’ my cock like such a good girl, baby. Come on now, let me feel her again. She feels like fuckin’ heaven.”

“Jooooel,” you whined.

But that crest of a wave was swelling worse now, higher, blood coursing hot through the river of your veins, sparking as it flooded your belly. Your hips tightened. Your muscles locked. Your whole body seemed to pull toward him, toward that hard, dragging stroke, toward the pressure building so tight you could hardly breathe around it.

“Oh god,” you gasped. “Oh god.”

“Make your old man happy, baby,” he panted, hips snapping harder now. “Come on my cock. Know you wanna. Know your pussy loves it.”

“Shut up,” you cried. “Shut up, shut up.”

He grabbed your face again, mock pout gone, teeth bared with the strain of holding himself together.

“Where are those sweet manners you had not too long ago?”

You squealed as he built up a faster rhythm. His hand hooked around your neck, pulling you up just enough to make you look down between your bodies, where his cock was splitting you open over and over.

“You see that, baby?” he groaned. “She’s milkin’ me. Beggin’ me to let her come, ain’t she? Look how good she’s takin’ me.”

“So good,” you murmured between moans.

It was true. His cock was covered with your thick arousal and come, pearly white and glistening around the shaft every time he pulled out, only to swing his hips back into you again.

“So why don’t you use those good manners and ask me?” he rasped. “Hm? Too proud already? Or are you too cock drunk?”

You pushed weakly against him, and he let you lay back down fully, following you down to kiss you. His mouth was wet, his breath uneven, his body still working yours into the coat beneath you.

“Gonna make me beg for it now, sweetheart?” he asked against your lips. “That it?”

You shook your head, too far gone to answer properly.

“I ain’t above beggin’,” he chuckled, though the sound broke wetly into a groan when you clenched around him again. “Wanna feel it so badly.”

He reached down between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit and strumming it with the perfect pressure.

Your eyes popped open, you didn’t even have time to beg. To ask. To tell him.

Your body locked up all at once, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure burst bright and black behind your lids. It tore through you in waves, hips jerking beneath him, thighs shaking where he had you folded open. Your mouth fell wide around a sound you barely recognized as yours.

Somewhere outside the buzzing of your orgasm, outside your own moans and the pulse pounding in your ears, you heard Joel groaning louder.

“That’s it,” he gritted against your cheek. “Fuck, that’s it, baby. Give it to me. Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl.”

His thrusts started to lose their rhythm, turning deeper, rougher, his hips driving into you with less control each time. His hand tightened at your jaw, his forehead pressing hot to yours mouth open against yours, and then he pushed into you one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go.

Joel groaned your name like it had been dragged from somewhere low in his chest, and then he filled you, cock pulsing inside you as his body went heavy over yours, his breath breaking against your mouth.

For a moment, neither of you moved. There was only breath.

Yours, thin, uneven, still catching in your dry throat when you tried to swallow. He felt heavy over you, his breath thick against your cheek. His weight felt good, like a blanket, though your legs had begun to cramp until he let your leg down.

The open summer morning moved on around you. It all came back to your ears eventually, the cricking of the open barn door, the horses in the pasture and the birds singing from far away. The field smelled like fresh grass and weeds and sunshine, Joel's coffee still faint on his breath.

You hummed against him as he kissed the crook of your neck, his mustache and beard prickly against you. He feathered his lips up your throat until they were over your own lips, which you pressed gently against his. He pulled back, just looking at you. And you did the same. You brought your hand up to his face slowly, tracing the line of his brow, down his sharp nose and over the bow of his top lip.

"You are so perfect." you said dreamily.

He breathed a little laugh through his nose, a crooked, disbelieving smile pulling his lips. A shyness you weren't sure you'd ever seen.

The heat between you had started to cool. Your skin prickled beneath your open jacket, the air finding every place his body didn’t cover. You shivered, and Joel noticed at once.

“Chilly?”

“Only a little.”

He sighed, like he hated that he had to move, then leaned down to press one more long, lingering kiss to your lips before sitting back.

You made a small sound when he pulled out of you, your body too sensitive for even that. Joel’s eyes dropped between you, his jaw tightening for a second at the sight of himself slipping free, slick and spent against your thigh.

"Poor baby," he said, his thumb reaching out to slide up your wet and abused folds. You whined at the touch, and he pouted down at you.

"Easy, easy, I know. Gonna take care of her when we get home."

He sat back on his heels and tucked himself away first, hands slower now, less steady than they’d been when he’d taken the rifle from you. Then he reached for your sleep pants where they’d been left in the grass, shook them once to knock off the loose dirt, and turned back to you.

You blinked up at him, limp and boneless, still spread over his coat.

Joel looked down at you for a second, one brow lifting. “Don’t make me do all the work now, baby.”

You smiled sleepily. “You seemed to like doing all the work a minute ago.”

His mouth pressed into a line, but it didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. “Smart mouth,” he muttered.

Still, his hands were gentle when he guided one foot through the pant leg, then the other. He pulled the cotton up your calves carefully, pausing when the fabric caught at your knee, easing it loose before working it higher. You lifted your hips only when he tapped them, and even then, barely.

“There ya go,” he murmured, drawing the waistband back into place beneath your rumpled top. He helped you sit up slowly in his lap, one hand braced behind your back, the other fixing the front of your coat around you. His knuckles brushed your stomach as he straightened your shirt, then pulled the jacket closed enough to keep the morning air off your skin.

You stayed like that for a moment, hiked up over his thighs, and he let your limbs fold around him again, hands back into his messy hair.

"I meant it—you—" you began, then licked your lips, staring up into his pretty hazel eyes again, "you're good, Joel. You're perfect."

He opened his mouth to protest, but sighed instead.

"Thank you for bringing me out here," you went on, "I'm sorry if I was mean earlier."

He smiled crookedly, "I was too."

You shook your head, "You had reasons to be."

He leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to your lips, "Bakery is gonna be wonderin' where you are, we better get back."

You held on tight even when he began to move, and a little mischevious smile twitched your mouth.

"What?" he asked, smile growing.

"One more shot?"

thank you so much for reading! I love youuu!!!

[wayward-dreamer]

Incentive

Pairing: Contractor!Joel x F!Real estate agent!Reader (no outbreak!au)

Word count: 7.8k

Summary: You're coming up on a deadline to put a house on the market and need Joel's help with some unexpected, but necessary renovations. When he gives you the bad news that it might take longer than your desired date, you find a way to sweeten the deal.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing, friends to lovers, semi co-workers to lovers, the big dial joke, age gap (Joel is 36, reader is early 30s), smut: dirty talk, oral (m and f receiving), really brief rimming, spanking, unprotected sex (wrap it people), sex on a client's bed, rough sex, hair pulling, doggystyle, mating press, creampie, minor post-sex insecurities, but Joel reassures reader, Joel's pretty swoon worthy in this if I do say so myself, fluff. Reader described with female anatomy, has hair long enough to tie up, no use of y/n.

A/N: It's currently cold and raining in Australia, but that doesn't mean I can't envision a Joel Miller summer. Had to turn up the heat somehow, am I right? ;) Anyway, happy reading! :)

Main Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist | Read on Ao3

The Texas heat had officially turned you into a puddle.

Despite the air conditioning on in your car, you wiped at your brow as you made your way through suburban streets, taking turns sharper than you should’ve been in order to get to your destination. When you pulled into the driveway of a two-storey, brick facade and manicured lawns, you sighed in relief. You cut the engine, picked up your large leather tote from the passenger seat and swung it over your shoulder, and said a quick prayer that you didn’t burst into flames when you stepped out into hellfire. You practically held your breath as you slammed the driver’s door behind you, hearing the beep as your car locked and you walked up the two steps to the front entrance. You perched your sunglasses on top of your head as you dug out the spare keys you had been given by the owner, unlocking the front door and stepping into a slightly less warm interior.

You glanced around the living area, stopping the thermostat immediately, and cranked up the temperature. You heard the air hiss as it started, feeling it slowly filtering in and cooling the place down. You dropped the keys and your sunglasses on the coffee table, placing your purse on the couch and taking out all the work that you had brought with you. You were thankful the owners were friendly, clients you had known for a while and wanted you to put their house on the market for them, trusting no one else. You had met with them at the office, and when they eventually got you into the house to take a look, you weren’t prepared for how much of a fixer upper it was. You looked between your notes, and lifted your eyes up to the different parts of the house that would need to be renovated, shaking your head as you thought about the deadline you had been given by your boss.

You had a month to get the house ready before it needed to be put on the market. Everything was moving so fast these days, and considering time was money now, you couldn’t afford to slack off. Not that you ever did, you loved your job and took it very seriously, but you had hoped that there might be some leeway in the timeline. When your boss told you there wasn’t, you had to call in contractors you could trust.

You took out your phone from your pocket as it pinged, a new text waiting for you. You opened it, biting your lip to keep the smile off your face.

Be there in 10.

It was from Joel, the only contractor you had come to trust. Him and his brother and their team of guys, to be exact. You had worked with them for a few years, on and off with different projects, so when it came to this place you knew you needed someone who wouldn’t bullshit you about the work that needed to be done. They were really good at what they did, extremely professional and it didn’t hurt that Joel was very easy on the eyes.

So easy, in fact, that it had made you want to throw all that professionalism out the window on more than one occasion.

You shook your head to get rid of those thoughts, fixing your purple, sleeveless ruffled blouse and smoothing a hand down your black, pencil skirt as you carried your files into the kitchen. You took out one of the bottles of water from the fridge, having had permission from your client to help yourself to whatever while they were away. You sat up on one of the bar stools, flipping through pages of comps as you drank down a large gulp of water, your eyes scanning over numbers and graphs. Just as you were about to make yourself a little comfortable and slip your black heels off, the doorbell rang and echoed through the house.

You slid off the stool, fixed your skirt and walked down the hall to the front door, your heels clicking against the laminate floors. One of the things on the list that needed fixing. You swung the door open and expected to get slapped in the face by the heat, but you weren’t expecting for your heart to start beating rapidly at the sight of Joel in front of you. He wore a grey t-shirt that pulled tight across his broad frame, medium wash jeans and his signature work boots, all things that instantly had your mouth filling with saliva.

“Hey, darlin’,” he greeted you, his perfect lips pulling into a soft smile. His Southern charm was intact and making you swoon inwardly already.

“Hey, come on in,” you suddenly found the words, smiling politely. “Get out of the heat…”

He stepped in and walked past you, allowing you to take a quick glance outside, a frown pulling at your brows as you turned back to him. “Where’s Tommy?”

“Drove over here from another job, so I left him in charge,” he replied, shrugging as he faced you, clipboard in hand and ready to work. “So, just me, I’m ‘fraid.”

“Right,” you squeaked, covering it up by clearing your throat, shutting the door.

This was definitely going to be a problem. You had never been alone with him, thankful that Tommy had always been around and kept you from throwing yourself at Joel. You squared your shoulders as you joined him in the hallway, clasping your hands. You were a professional, you could do this. You couldn’t let some stupid crush get in the way of you doing your job.

“Well, I can already see one of the things we gotta work on,” he observed, his gaze looking down at the laminate floors, his pen gesturing from them to the living area, covered in beige carpet.

“Yeah, it all needs to be ripped out including the tile in the kitchen,” you explained, waving a finger as you pointed at the rooms. “Replaced with wood flooring throughout, and the kitchen needs a whole remodel.”

He made quick notes on his board, before he nodded. “Let’s take a look…”

You both walked into the kitchen, Joel letting out a surprised whistle as he saw the interiors. The cabinetry was all dark mahogany, with ornate designs in black piping. The countertops were granite, a dark grey almost black and the appliances were all black too.

“This guy in the mafia or something?” he joked, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“You know I don’t really want to know,” you retorted, making him chuckle lightly. You tried not to let that sound affect you, but god, it was really doing something for you. You stepped over to the fridge and took out a bottle of water for him too, handing it over.

“Ah! You’re an angel,” he muttered, dropping his clipboard on the island and cracking the seal.

Joel tipped his head as he drank it down, hard gulps making his throat bob. You tried not to look, distracting yourself by tracing your finger along the countertop, but as a droplet of water ran down his chin and his neck, your gaze couldn’t help but follow it as it collected along the neckline of his shirt, slightly damp from sweat. He lifted his head back up, taking the collar in his hand and wiping it across his mouth, and you felt your thighs clench at the action. You felt crazy, thousands of scenarios racing through your mind every time you saw him, and this time was no different. He had no idea how sexy he was with even the smallest of gestures, or if he did know he sure didn’t know the effect it was having on you in that moment.

“So,” you carried on, turning away from him as he screwed the cap back on the bottle. “As you can see… it’s dated as hell. Not enticing to new homeowners at all.”

“Got that right,” he added, taking a small stroll around the length of the kitchen, before he faced you. “You got an idea of what they want done?”

“Yeah, it’s all in here,” you said, leaning over the counter and taking out a few papers. If you had been paying attention, you would’ve noticed Joel’s eyes wandering over your curves, but you weren’t. You turned back to him, handing them over. “You can keep those, I’ve got copies.”

“Thanks, darlin’,” he husked, that soft smile once again pulling at his features as he took them from you.

You smiled briefly, clearing your throat. “No problem.”

You waited a few minutes as he looked over the kitchen remodel ideas that your clients had given you to hand over to Joel. You watched as he took the tape measure out of his back pocket, took a few measurements of different parts of the kitchen, before scribbling them down. You saw the way he frowned, hunched over the counter as his eyes darted between the pages and the notes he just took. When he noticed you waiting, he stood up straight as his brow eased. Whatever he was thinking, he clearly didn’t want to tell you yet.

“Upstairs?” you asked, softly.

“Lead the way,” he replied, gesturing for you to go first.

You walked back down the hall, hearing his heavy footsteps follow behind you. “There’s also some wiring issues that need to be fixed.”

“I’ll have to get another guy on that,” he informed you.

You nodded, making a mental note of that as you climbed the carpeted stairs, another change you pointed out to him. The owners wanted it to be in the same wood as the flooring for the rest of the living area. You were fully aware of his presence behind you, adding a swing to your hips with every step you took, matching the swish of your ponytail. You couldn’t help it when all you hoped for was him grabbing you by your waist and throwing you down right there on the stairs, having his way with you. You hated the fact that you had to pretend everything was okay, that all you were was semi co-workers and nothing more.

You both walked the length of the top floor, as you added that nothing really needed changing there apart from things in the master suite. You led him in there, stopping in front of the walk-in closet. You leaned against one side of the archway, Joel against the other side and in close proximity to you. You tried not to make it obvious when you gulped nervously, barely even glancing over to him as you looked around the small room.

“The uh, the wife didn’t want to make this any bigger especially if they weren’t staying,” you explained, your gaze fixated on one of the shelves to avoid looking at him. “But considering I’m finding them houses with closets twice this size, I think we can stand to make it another couple of square feet.”

“We sure can try,” he muttered, nodding as he noted it down. “Twice this size, huh? That’s insane.”

“Right? Must be nice,” you scoffed, taking one last look around before moving onto the master bath. “Nothing much here, just cosmetic work. Changing taps, cabinetry, all that.”

“Easy,” he commented, looking around the room.

“Well, that’s it,” you stated, stepping back from the bathroom and plopping yourself down on the foot of the king-size, shiny and ornate mahogany bed. “So, do you think guys will be able to get this all done in a month?”

Joel huffed a small laugh as he continued to look over all his notes, leaning against the dark wood dresser across from the bed. A silence fell between you both as you waited for him to finish making estimates in his head, your left leg crossing over your right as you adjusted your skirt. You saw Joel’s gaze briefly lift up with that action, a small shiver running up your spine when he went back to his clipboard. It excited you, but also made you all the more nervous to be alone with them.

You had liked him from the first time you met, a quick plastering issue on a condo you needed to sell. He was quiet, kept to himself mostly as you got to know about them through Tommy, clearly the talker of the two of them. It was Tommy that told you how they got started, that he had been married to a woman named Maria for two years and counting, and that Joel had a 14 year old daughter, Sarah. As time went on and you kept meeting on different projects, Joel began to loosen up more. A small joke here, a light flirtation there. Enough to get your blood pumping and your thighs clenching. He had been just as he was now, tousled dark hair, soft brown eyes, tanned skin under tight t-shirts in varying colors, and a perky tush that looked great in denim. He had rugged good looks, and a kindness that came with it that surprised you at first, but made so much sense as you got to know him over the years. You wanted him in every way possible, but given the nature of both your jobs and having to work together occasionally, it was a risk. It also didn’t help that he had responsibilities outside of work that you didn’t want to interfere with.

In conclusion, Joel Miller was unattainable.

Despite the fact that you had caught him looking at you so many times, you weren’t really sure how he felt. He could just be caught up in the moment, and quite frankly, you didn’t want to make a fool of yourself and find out he didn’t feel the same way you did.

“It’s a big job,” he started, as he split his focus between you and his notes. “With all this work, including the wiring like you said, that I’m definitely gonna need more manpower for, you’re looking at… six weeks minimum.”

Your eyes widened at that. “Six weeks? Minimum?”

He nodded.

“Are you sure?” you asked, feeling your heart thumping harder for a reason other than Joel.

“Positive,” he replied, his brown eyes meeting yours.

“Joel, please, you gotta help me out here,” you reasoned, frowning. “If you’re bringing more guys on, can’t you work faster?”

“Faster? Sure, how much faster?” he questioned, his brows raised in enthusiasm. “‘Cause you see, we got this uh, big dial called “The Constructo-Meter”. The more you turn it, the faster we go.”

He curled his fingers as if he was gripping something, twisting his wrist in a turning motion as he chuckled at his own dumb joke, but you didn’t find it funny. Your face fell into a sullen expression, your shoulders slumped as a long exhale left you.

“I’m laughing on the inside,” you mumbled, glancing up at him through your lashes.

“Sorry, bad joke,” he apologized, his gaze sincere and a little sombre. “Wish I had better news for ya, sweetheart.”

You’d kill any other man for calling you that, but never Joel. He never meant it in a condescending way, and it just felt natural coming from him, like it was a reflection of the way he was brought up. You actually liked hearing it from him, and it gave you that giddy feeling you had tried so hard to ignore.

“It’s fine,” you sighed, shaking your head. “Though you’re buying the tequila I’ll be drowning myself in once I’m fired.”

He frowned, a soft hum escaping him as he stared at you. “Can’t ya talk to your boss? See if he can get that stick out his ass and give you some more time?”

“Unfortunately not, I think that stick is very much intact,” you concluded, rolling your eyes as you thought about the reaction that awaited you once you told him the news.

You winced slightly as a pain flared up in your left thigh, stretched over your right leg. You held your skirt in place and adjusted yourself, slowly uncrossing them before draping the right over the left. You raised your head and saw that this time, Joel was very much staring at you. More specifically, your legs in the above-knee length skirt you were wearing. Your eyes locked and he realized quickly that you had caught him in the act, a small smile pulling at your lips as he hastily turned his face away. A tense, sensually charged silence fell between you, and you knew in that moment you had to take advantage of it.

“See something you like, Miller?” you asked, your voice light and teasing.

He cleared his throat, his big brown eyes briefly glancing at you before looking away again, his hand scratching at the back of his neck. “N-Nope, nothing.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn I just caught you looking at me,” you stated, a seductive tone to your words. “Like I have so many times before.”

Suddenly, in a boldness you didn’t know you possessed, your fingers skimmed down your neck and toyed with the neckline of your blouse. You captured one of the buttons, flicking it open instantly to reveal more of your cleavage. Just as your fingers slipped down to the second button, Joel turned his head to look back at you, his brown eyes suddenly darker.

“I guess I was lookin’ at ya,” he husked, his voice deep and rough. “Is that a problem, darlin’?”

You shook your head, your gaze unwavering from his as you opened the next button, the lace of your black bra showing. “The only problem is what we’re gonna do about it.”

A smirk pulled across his lips as he slowly pushed himself off the dresser, sauntering towards the bed and closing the gap between the two of you. He stood in front of you, your gaze shifting up to see him towering over you. Your chest heaved as you breathed heavily, noticing his eyes on the rise and fall of your breast. The professionalism you prided yourself on was about to be thrown out the window, but at that moment you couldn’t care less. Not when the man you had fantasized about so many times was standing right in front of you, the scent of his cologne mixed with wood reaching your senses.

You saw his throat constrict as he swallowed, unwilling to look away from you. “What are we gonna do about it?”

“Well,” you started, uncrossing your legs and sliding your hands down your skirt, tugging the hem up as you shifted off the bed. “First, I think you need a little incentive for this project to get done.”

You pulled the skirt up around your hips, your legs spreading as you sank to your knees, the carpet pressing into your skin. You gazed up at him with a sensuous glint in your eye, your hands sliding up his thick thighs and over the bulge that had grown in his jeans. You moaned softly as he let out a small groan, his brown orbs following every movement of yours, his breath hitching when you leaned in and pressed your lips over his covered hard-on.

“Maybe we-maybe we shouldn’t,” he stuttered, his hand finding your shoulder and pushing you away lightly. “Not here…”

He was still trying to be the Southern gentleman and you appreciated him for that, but that wasn’t going to get you what you both needed at that point.

“The client's out for the week, no one’s coming home any time soon,” you reassured him, reaching for his belt. You quickly unbuckled it, pulling the zipper down in the process as you stared up at him, smiling seductively. “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? Having me on my knees, just like this?”

He huffed a strangled laugh. “More than you know.”

“Good, because I’ve thought about your cock down my throat more times than I can count, too,” you confessed, biting your lip.

Your hands pulled his jeans open, your eyes widening as you tugged his boxers down and his hard cock sprung free, slapping against his pelvis. The guttural whimper that escaped you would’ve been embarrassing if it had been anyone else, but not with him. He was huge, his girth thick and veiny, the head flushed in a deep pink. He was perfect. Your eyes met briefly, a playful glint in his as he shrugged, acknowledging your appreciation of how well endowed he was. Your tongue slipped out between your lips, running along the underside of his cock before you softly sucked at the tip, licking at the bead of pre-cum. A low grunt left him as his eyes fluttered, wanting to watch you but as you repeated the action, taking a few inches into your wet, hot mouth, he couldn’t keep them open. You sucked softly at first, your throat relaxing with each extra inch you took, a small gag coming from you when he pressed against the back of it.

“Oh fuck, darlin’, your mouth’s too fuckin’ good,” he groaned, his large hand finding the back of your head, fingers wrapping around the meticulous ponytail you had made.

You pulled back slightly, dropping a line of your saliva along his shaft, one of your hands stroking him as you breathed heavily, gazing up at him. “Better than you imagined?”

“God, you got no fuckin’ clue, sweetheart,” he husked, gripping your pony tight. “Oh, fuckin’ shit…”

He threw his head back as you took him in again, all the way to hilt, gagging as your throat contracted around him. You pulled back a little before dropping down again, bobbing your head back and forth as you set a hard pace. Your hand slipped down to his balls, rolling them between your fingers and as the other groped his thigh to keep yourself steady. You moaned around his length, the vibration running through him and causing him to shiver, his grip on your hair tightening. You continued pleasuring him, your rhythm picking up as your throat glugged with each thrust into your mouth, saliva collecting at the sides. Your eyes stung, tears brimming at the waterline, but you didn’t dare stop. He cupped the sides of your face, his hips shifting forward with each stroke, fucking you in return and making you moan around him again.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last if you keep goin’,” he warned, his eyes flying open as he tilted his head to look at you.

You pulled back with a harsh gasp, breathing heavily as your hand pumped over him, messily with your spit. “Want you to cum down my throat, Joel, please… I wanna feel it so bad.”

“I don’t think so, darlin’,” he muttered, shaking his head as he stepped back slightly. He leaned forward, cupping your cheeks in his hands as he helped you stand to your feet. His eyes stared deeply into yours, something new and exhilarating behind them. “Not before I feel that gorgeous pussy of yours.”

“Joel,” you whimpered, grabbing his t-shirt in your fists. You had never been so turned on in your life, and you should’ve known a blowjob wouldn’t have been enough. This man wanted you, and you wanted him. In every way possible.

“Turn around, hands and knees on the bed,” he ordered, his voice deep and rough as his breath fanned against your lips.

You smiled softly as your eyes darkened, shifting back slowly towards the bed. You turned around, crawling up on the silky covers and reaching down to your heels.

“Nope, those stay on,” he added, one brow raised as he watched you.

You moaned softly as you took your hand away, a small shiver running up your back at his intense gaze. He wasn’t playing around, and it just amplified your delirious need for him. You spread your thighs as your hands and knees pressed into the covers, the heat in your core flaring up as you heard him stand behind you. Your skirt was already hiked up from your previous activity, giving him a perfect view of your black lace thong. It covered nothing, letting him see the glistening folds of your mound, the sight eliciting a low growl from him. The cool breeze of the air conditioning met your sopping sex as he pulled the thong aside, making you whimper as you waited in anticipation of what he was going to do to you.

“So fuckin’ perfect,” he husked, his hand sliding up one of your thighs. “Perfect little pussy, perfect ass-”

His words were cut off as he lifted his hand, bringing it down against the left cheek in a harsh smack. You jolted, eyes widening as you moaned, loudly. The initial sting lasted a second or two, giving way to an ebbing pleasure. He repeated the action at the right, harder this time, your moan increasing in volume as your hands fisted the sheets. As you relished in the glorious heat across your skin, he raised one knee on the bed and bent over behind you, his tongue licking a long stripe over your folds.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, glancing back at him.

“So fucking wet already,” he stated, smirking as he slid his fingers over your wetness. “Sucking my dick got you drippin’, huh, darlin’?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathed.

He chuckled lightly, moving in and stroking his tongue over you again. You whimpered as he continued the action, groaning softly as his skilled muscle slipped further between your folds. It found your clit, moving around it in tight circles, causing you to moan wantonly as your head dropped down onto the mattress, your ass up in the air and completely his to take.

“Taste so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he muttered against your tight heat. “Sweetest little pussy I ever had…”

Without another word, he grabbed onto your hips and pressed in further, continuing his ministrations as he alternated between your swollen nub and your folds. Your eyes snapped closed as your mouth fell open, strings of pleasured noises and expletives leaving you as he refused to ease up. His tongue moved to your entrance, teasing the edge of it as he sucked at your folds, groaning against you. You were absolutely overwhelmed already, the way his skilled muscle brought you so much euphoria was enough to make you lose your mind already, and he hadn’t even fucked you yet. You felt your walls clench and you knew you were close, but Joel was far from done using his mouth and tongue on you. You felt him smirk against your pussy as he pulled back slightly, kissing up the curve of your ass as he spread your cheeks, his wet muscle teasing your puckered hole. Your eyes widened as you mewled loudly into the covers, feeling his tongue circle around the tight ring once, twice before he pulled back and kissed your thigh, moving back down to your mound. You had never had anyone do that to you, frankly too nervous to ever do that for the first time with someone you had just met, but you were so open and available to Joel. It should’ve scared you, but considering how much time you had spent in close proximity, it made you more comfortable with him than you had been with other lovers.

Him already knowing you so intimately, knowing exactly what drove you crazy, was an incredible feat. Just by working with him for the last few years, on and off for different projects, clearly it had been enough to anticipate what made you tick. His tongue slid into your entrance, thrusting back and forth as more of your wetness collected, a grunt leaving him as he continued his erotic torture. His head shook from side to side as he pressed in further, practically motorboating your sex, causing a shriek to escape your throat. You could feel yourself slipping, your coil tightening as you reached closer and closer to the edge. You panted as your cheek pressed into the covers, fists clenching the sheets so hard you thought you were going to rip them.

“J-Joel, I-I’m so close,” you whimpered, tears stinging your eyes once more. “I-I need-I need to cum, Joel, please-”

“Oh, I know, baby, can feel you grippin’ my tongue like a fuckin’ vice,” he growled, pulling back and replacing his skilled muscle with his equally skilled fingers. “Cum on my face, sweetheart, wanna feel it all over me…”

His mouth went back to your entrance, tongue continuing to thrust into you as his fingers rubbed over your bundle of nerves, both working in tandem to push you over the precipice. With another few strokes of both his tongue and his fingers, you felt the dam break. You cried out, his name falling from your lips as your juices flowed over his waiting mouth. He lapped at everything you had to give him, his lips sucking at your folds to get every drop.

“Fuckin’ shit, you’re so perfect,” he muttered, leaning his forehead against the curve of your ass.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you breathed deeply, trying to calm down after the incredible bliss you had just experienced. You didn't have much time to recover however, hearing Joel’s belt clink as he pulled his jeans down a little further, his hands on your hips as he pulled you back and closer to him. You bit your lip as you felt his cock press against you, his hand taking hold of it and smacking the head against your folds, making you keen with impatience. You pushed back against him, your wet canal teasing the tip as it suctioned around him, before pulling back. You did it again, a naughty giggle escaping you as he growled in frustration.

“You want it so bad, don’t ya, dirty girl?” he asked, the timbre of his voice rough and deep. He raised his hand and brought it down against the right globe of your ass, hard.

“Oh god!” you cried out.

“Just call me Joel, darlin’,” he jested, snickering as his hand smoothed over the stinging flesh.

“Joel, please,” you pleaded, turning your head to look at him. “I want it, I want it so bad, give it to me…”

“What do ya want, baby? Tell me,” he instructed, tilting his head to meet your gaze.

You let out a guttural sound, somewhere between arousal and irritation. “Your cock, please, I need your cock inside me!”

Without any hesitation, his cock slammed into you in one, powerful thrust. A shrill moan fell from your lips, eyes widening as you felt his girth stretch your walls, sheathing his length completely. He wasted no time as he pulled out briefly, thrusting back in and instantly setting a hard, fast pace. His hips smacked against the curve of your ass, wet skin slapping together as your hands continued to pull at the covers. You tried to gaze back at him, but you could barely keep your head up, too far gone from the pleasure he was giving you.

“‘S that what you wanted?” he asked, his words chopped between harsh breaths. “Tell me you wanted this big cock fucking you so deep, come on…”

“Y-Yes!” you shrieked, your body shaking from the power of his thrusts, limbs burning as you could hardly hold yourself up anymore. “Yes, I wanted your big cock fucking me so deep, Joel, fucking me hard, dreamt about it so many times.”

He grunted, his hands digging deeper into the flesh of your hips. “Oh, fuck yeah, that’s what I wanted to hear. You’re so fucking tight, baby, feel so good.”

Your arms gave out as you fell forward on the bed, your breasts pressed into the covers while your hips remained up, held by him as he perfectly glided back and forth from your wet heat. The wet smack of his pelvis against your ass joined the cacophony of other sounds coming from both of you, sharp grunts leaving his lips with each thrust as you let out a never ending string of moans and whimpers.

Joel reached for the edge of his t-shirt and whipped it off, throwing it somewhere behind him. His arms slid under you, lifting you up into his big, strong arms as they wrapped around you. His chest pressed against your back, his hips continuing to thrust up into you at a brutal and intoxicating pace as he reached around, unbuttoning the rest of your blouse. He yanked the fabric out of your skirt, throwing it in the general direction of wherever his shirt was, taking the clasp of your bra in one hand and expertly flicking it open. You moaned softly as he pulled it off you, his large hands cupping your breasts, his fingers deftly rolling your nipples into tight buds as your head fell back on his shoulder.

“You said you dreamt about this so many times, right?” he whispered in your ear, the deep, soft rumble making you shiver in his hold.

You nodded, unable to form words as you hooked your arm up around his neck, grabbing onto him.

“Me too, darlin’, more times than I can remember,” he confessed, leaning down to kiss along your jaw. “But this? It’s better than anythin’ my mind could’ve ever thought up.”

“Oh god, Joel,” you whimpered, tucking your face into his neck.

“Your pussy feels better than I could’ve imagined, so wet and warm… grippin’ around my cock so tight, feels fuckin’ incredible, sweetheart.”

As he spoke those words, the curve of his nose nuzzled against your neck, his lips kissing along your skin as a soft cry escaped you. His hips shifted up, slamming into you as he picked up the pace. Beads of sweat rolled down both of your bodies from the rapturous way he was fucking you. Your breasts bounced from the impact as he continued to caress them, his mouth at your neck, nipping and licking at your pulse. You felt the familiar feeling blooming in your core once more, and you knew that you were close, wanting nothing more than to feel Joel lose himself in this euphoria at the same time as you. You opened your eyes, tilting your head to look up at him, his face so close as his lips brushed over yours. Short, strained gasps escaped your mouth as he pummeled into you, your need to tell him that you were on the edge dying on your tongue. One of his hands slipped down from your breast to move between your thighs, his fingers rubbing your clit causing you to moan wantonly into his parted lips, reveling in the fact that he already knew your body so well.

“J-Joel,” you stammered, gripping his curls tight in your hand. “Fuck, I-I’m gonna cum-”

“I know, I can feel it,” he groaned, nipping at your jaw. “Want you cumming so hard, baby, want you soaking my cock.”

As his fingertips worked faster on your swollen nub, his hips smacked harder against you, helping you chase that blissful release. He thrusted up into your wet canal once, twice more until you couldn’t hold on any longer. Your hand held onto his arm that was holding you up to anchor yourself, feeling the intense wave crash over you. Your eyes squeezed shut, vision turning white as your walls contracted around him, nails digging into his skin as his name fell from your lips in a sound somewhere between a moan and scream. You felt your arousal dripping out of you, running down his shaft and your inner thighs, but you barely had time to recover.

He grabbed you by your waist as he pulled out of you, a whine escaping you at the loss of him. It quickly turned into a squeal as he roughly turned you onto your back, throwing your calves onto his shoulders, mindful of your heels. Without any warning, he slammed back into you, your eyes widening as you shrieked. You briefly glanced down to see his thick cock pounding into you, a sticky white ring of your arousal around his girth, making you moan softly. Your hand followed along with your eyeline as it moved up the softness of his belly to the broadness of his chest and shoulders, gripping onto the back of his neck as he fucked you into the mattress. You met his gaze to see his jaw tight and his eyes glowering with an intensity you hadn’t witnessed before, his brown orbs flitting over your features. The rhythm of his hips faltered, and you knew he was close to his own release, too.

“Where do you want me, darlin’?” he asked, his words coming out in short, strained breaths.

“Inside,” you replied, your voice completely unrecognizable to your own ears, husky and desperate as you cared more about feeling him than any decorum. That went out the window several moments ago.

“Oh, fuck,” he grunted, trying so hard to hold on. “You sure?”

“I-I’m on the pill,” you nodded frantically, wrapping your arms around him. “Please, Joel, please cum inside me. I wanna feel it, fill me up, make me feel it for days…”

That was more than enough for him as his hips slapped against yours in rapid thrusts, your walls clenching tight around him once more and feeling his cock pulse into you. His neck strained back, veins popping up against his skin as he let out a guttural moan, spurts of his seed flooding your tight heat. You hummed in a quiet delight as you felt him coat your walls, giving you everything he had. His head dropped down as he panted heavily, his arms shaking as he continued to hold himself up above you. With a quivering hand, you reached up and cupped his jaw, softly stroking your thumb along his beard. At your touch, his gaze meets yours again, a new, almost shy look reflected in his brown eyes.

He carefully pulled out of you, a hiss leaving your lips at the loss of him but also the delectable burn in your thighs from how hard he had ravished you. You bit your lip as you felt his cum trickling out of you, your legs automatically closing to keep it from leaking onto the bedspread. He laid down beside you, both of you breathing harshly as you came down from the high, an awkward silence stretching on the longer you both stayed still.

You felt like your heart had sank into your stomach when he sat up, groaning softly as his bones clicked and he grasped his jeans around his waist, moving off the bed. You suddenly felt completely exposed, which was strange considering what you had just done, but you were feeling more vulnerable now as your arms came up to cover yourself, eyes frantically searching for your bra. You picked it up off the floor, your mind already reeling with self doubt and regret, not even registering Joel walking out of the bathroom with a wet washcloth. You stood and clasped the bra around yourself quickly, reaching for your top.

“Whoa, whoa, hey,” he husked, stepping in front of you, a frown pulling his brows down. “What’re you doin’?”

You glanced around the room, thanking the Lord above you didn’t see any stains on the bedspread, clutching your blouse to your chest as you met his soft, concerned eyes. You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes for an entirely different and less enjoyable reason than before.

“I’m so-I’m so embarrassed,” you breathed, a tear finally escaping and rolling down one cheek. “This isn’t how I do things, this isn’t how I work-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he soothed you, cupping your face in his large hands. “It’s just you and me here, right? Like you said?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice to come out properly.

“Then it’s just between you and me,” he stated, slowly sitting you down on the edge of the bed. He knelt down in front of you, hands still cradling your cheeks. “Wasn’t lyin’ when I said I’ve been thinkin’ about this a long time, darlin’.”

You looked at him, huffing a small laugh. “Me neither.”

A whisper of a smile pulled at lips. “‘Bout fuckin’ time we did something about it, huh?”

“Yeah,” you sniffled, giggling quietly.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “And it was pretty fuckin’ incredible, right?”

“Right,” you nodded, biting your lip.

“Can I?” he asked, his voice deep but soft like his gaze, holding the washcloth up.

You nodded, gulping slightly as you opened your legs, a little hum leaving you as you felt the warm cloth between your folds. He leaned in, pressing a delicate kiss to your cheek as he cleaned you up, pulling your thong back in place. He stood up, kissing your forehead in the same tenderness, making your eyes flutter closed. Your previous doubts dwindled slightly, but there was one thing still grating at the back of your mind. As he turned his back to you, allowing you to admire the muscles that sculpted it before he pulled his shirt back on, you knew exactly what it was.

Between the throes of passion you had found yourselves in, his lips had never touched yours.

You redressed in silence, pulling your skirt down and smoothing the fabric, buttoning your blouse up and tucking it into the waistband. You fixed your ponytail, making sure it was meticulous once again, before you both turned back to each other. Joel smiled softly, and you tried to return it but you couldn’t help the way your stomach flipped, nervously.

“Joel,” you sighed, unsure of how to say what you wanted to. Maybe all he wanted was to fool around, and this little tryst was satisfying enough for him, which meant he had no desire to kiss you. Maybe he didn’t want more, and when he said he had pictured this countless times, he only meant sex and nothing more.

Before you could jump to any further conclusions, however, Joel stepped in front of you. His body, well built over his time in construction, stood tall over you and barely an inch away as his arms suddenly slid around your waist. You gasped in surprise as you stared up at him, the force of him pulling you close automatically causing your own arms to drape around his neck. Without sparing another second, he leaned in and captured your lips in a searing, passionate kiss. Your eyes closed as you moaned against his mouth, his tongue slipping past as the intensity grew. You clung to his broad physique, pressing yourself closer to him as your fingers combed through his soft curls. His lips moved over yours, a small groan escaping him as you softly nipped at his bottom one. The sparks you had felt before as he took you on your client’s bed had returned, but even stronger this time, melting those previous doubts and delusions away.

Reluctantly, he pulled away as you inhaled sharply, needing air after he kissed you breathless. He peered down at you, a smirk pulling at his perfect lips as he cupped your cheek, his thick thumb grazing your skin.

“Shoulda done that a long time ago, too,” he confessed, brows furrowing at his own stupidity.

“I thought… before we, you didn’t want to or-” you babbled, shaking your head as you tried to find the right words, but it seemed he understood as he pecked your lips softly, silencing your worries.

“Oh, I wanted to, but you had other ideas in the form of incentive, darlin’,” he teased, grinning as he wiggled his eyebrows.

You rolled your eyes at your own hastiness, feeling a little silly for overthinking his intentions when you had been so desperate to feel him. “Sorry.”

“Hey, I ain’t complain’, sweetheart,” he reassured you.

You both leaned into each other, meeting halfway in yet another passionate kiss, but this time there was a certainty in it that calmed you, giving way to an exhilarating flutter in your stomach. He pulled away slowly, unwilling to part from you completely though as his arms tightened around you.

“Can I take you to dinner on Friday?” he asked, that deep, rumbling timbre of his tone making you shiver. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice, and you found it completely endearing.

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling before you spoke. “Like… like a date?”

“Yeah,” he whispered against your mouth.

You beamed, unable to stop yourself from throwing yourself further into his strong body. You wrapped your arms tighter around him, tucking your face into his neck, leaving a soft kiss at his pulse. A muffled “yes” left you as you giggled, the sound causing him to chuckle, practically squeezing you in his firm embrace. When you woke up that morning, you never could’ve imagined the day turning out quite like this. You suddenly didn’t care about a deadline, all the work that needed to be done on the house, all the paperwork. None of it really mattered and would work out the way it needed to, but all you really cared about was finally being in Joel’s arms.

You both made the room decent after that, with him insisting on helping you change the bedspread despite the fact that you had thankfully left no evidence of your romp. You both walked downstairs, allowing Joel to take some more measurements before the inevitable text from Tommy chimed from his phone, asking him where the hell he was.

“I’ll talk to him tonight,” he informed you, watching you shove all your papers back in your tote. “See what we can do about getting this done within a decent timeframe. Gonna try for four weeks minimum, and six max.”

You let out a relieved sigh, throwing your arms around him again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Can’t promise anything,” he added, trying to be firm with you but finding himself smirking. “You gotta talk to that boss o’ yours, too.”

“I will,” you vowed.

As you locked up the house, you sent each other off with another sweet kiss at your car, neither of you caring about the sun blazing down on you. You went your separate ways, but as you drove back to the office to finish up the last couple of hours of the day, you smiled to yourself about everything that unfolded back at the house. You may have forgotten yourself in regards to Joel and your work for a minute back there, but you felt reassured that it wasn’t all for nothing once you both expressed how you had always felt about each other. Your worries about work didn’t seem so heavy anymore.

You had the man of your literal dreams, a date with him, and hopefully the promise of so much more in the future.

Follow @wayward-dreamers-library for notifications of when I update.

tagging my fellow pre/no outbreak and contractor!Joel lovers: @peepawmiller @pedroscurls @fuzzy

[pearlessance]

I'll Crawl Home To Her

summary: all the ways joel miller loves his pretty, little wife. and all the ways she loves him right back.

pairing: husband!joel miller x wife!reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, traditional gender roles, pussy eating, vaginal sex, semi-public, exhibitionism kinda, dom/sub undertones, car sex, biting, dirty talk, joel is a certified munch, feminine reader, a whole bunch of tooth-rotting fluff

wc: 4.1k

note: something soft and sweet, tysm for reading, let me know what you think! <3

[masterlist] [read on AO3!]

Being Joel Miller's wife was, in short, marital bliss.

He loved taking care of you, and it showed in everything he did.

Joel always woke up earlier than you. On days he had to work, his alarm would rouse you just enough that you’d roll over to his side of the bed the moment he vacated it, soaking up his warmth and his scent, snuggling into his pillow. He’d kiss your forehead and tuck you in tight, and you’d fall asleep seconds after he whispered, “Have a good day, baby girl. Love you.”

And once you did finally roll out of bed, sunlight leaking in through the kitchen blinds, you’d find a fresh pot of coffee and your favorite mug sitting on the counter.

He worked long hours, but you could never fault him for it. He was doing it even in his old age to grant you the freedom to do any and everything you desired. Supporting you in all your endeavors no matter how fleeting.

When you’d picked up the hobby of gardening, Joel had taken you to three different greenhouses in one weekend and helped you till a section of the backyard to plant your seeds. And later that week, he’d come home with the back of his truck full of pretty white bricks to outline your garden with.

You’d mentioned once with your hands covered in suds how the dishes were your least favorite chore. You hated how they piled up so quickly, hated leaving them in the sink, how they felt never-ending.

“I can do the dishes, darlin’,” he’d said. “Just leave them for me an’ I’ll do ‘em after work every day.”

You loved him for the offer but refused. He already spoiled you enough as it is. You couldn’t imagine watching him standing at the sink every day after working for ten hours. “Are you crazy? No, I’d never let you do that.”

“Don’t bother me none,” he insisted. “S’only fair, considerin’ how good dinner is every night.”

The compliment made you flush, but still, you stood firm. Even when he’d come up behind you with a dish towel in hand, ready to take your place. You’d slapped his hands away. “Joel, no. Let me. Please.”

“Alright, fine,” he said, setting the towel on the counter. His hands found a new way to occupy themselves, though. Slipping beneath your skirt, squeezing at the softness of your thighs. “But at least let me get my desert.”

He’d had you bent over the countertop that night with your panties around your knees. He’d hummed his I love you’s against your spit-soaked clit in the middle of the kitchen and you’d felt like the most spoiled girl in the world. 

Even more so when he’d come home from work early the next day. He and Tommy walked through the front door with a brand new dishwasher in tow and spent all night assembling it.

Once, you’d been late coming back from the grocery store. Janet, the older woman who lived two houses down from you and Joel, had been berating the cashier for not accepting an expired coupon.

Confrontation had never been your strong suit, but it felt less like conflict and more like second nature to step in and defend a teenage girl just trying to do her job. You attempted to reason with Janet, explaining that it wasn’t the cashier's fault, that the use of her coupon perhaps just wasn’t meant to be. You’d even offered to pay for her entire shopping haul if it meant a break for the young girl. 

Of course, this wasn’t what Janet had wanted to hear, and she instead turned her anger on you. Your cheeks had warmed in embarrassment as she yelled your name aloud for all the other customers to hear, telling you to ‘keep your nose where it belonged.’ 

The whole interaction had frazzled you. But more than that, it had made you late. And while being screamed at so publically had certainly thrown you off kilter, the straw that broke the camel’s back was seeing Joel’s truck in the driveway when you got home. 

He had mentioned once how much he loved having someone to come home to. Had explained how seeing you standing there with a smile on your face waiting for him on the front porch every day made the long hours and unbearable heat worth it. But because of Janet, you weren’t there. 

Joel, your Joel—who always takes care of you, who would do anything for you, who puts your happiness above his own, the most selfless man you’ve ever known—had come home to an empty house. Worked twelve hours beneath the Texas sun to come home to absolute silence.

It didn’t matter that you’d left a note on the kitchen table, you’d meant to get back before he could ever read it.

The tears had come quickly. The embarrassment, the frustration, the anger you felt on that young girl’s behalf, came rushing to the surface all at once.

He’d left the door unlocked for you, like usual, and the moment you stepped inside you could hear the familiar, heavy sound of his boots on the wooden floor. “Hey, sweetheart. How was your—?”

Before he could ask any questions you’d flung yourself into his arms, needing comfort, needing to show him how much you loved him. To prove to him that you weren’t home but you wanted to be, more than anything. “I’m so sorry,” was all you managed to choke out. 

Joel, who valued your safety above all else, immediately stiffened yet pulled you closer, wrapping his big arms around your shoulders, his warm hand splayed across the small of your back. “Hey, hey—shh, what happened? Talk to me, sweet girl. C’mon.” 

He cradled your face in his palm, holding you gently as if you were the most precious thing because, to him, you are. He wiped your tears away with the rough pad of his thumb and listened as you explained, “I—I wasn’t here waiting for you! I’m sorry—I…I tried to come home as fast—as fast as I could but—!”

“S’okay, baby. I know you’ll always come home to me, alright? I’m not mad. Could never be mad at you, y’know that.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, to the arch of your brow, to the bridge of your nose. He rubbed soothing circles into your skin until your tears slowed and your breaths found their normal cadence once again. And then, because he knows you, he asked, “What really happened?”

And you tell him. Every detail. And Joel stands there, holding you, listening with bated breath. 

When you finish, he pulls his shoulders back with a newfound objective. “M’gonna go talk to Lee,” he said.

Janet’s husband was a good man, you knew. Similar to Joel in the way of being a nurturing sort of husband. A hard-working man with never a bad thing to say about anyone. “You don’t have to,” you tell Joel. “What she did was wrong but I’d rather she takes it out on me than a kid at their first job.”

He shakes his head. “Can’t just let it go,” he said. “She disrespected my wife. Not the kinda thing I can turn the other cheek to.” 

“Joel—don’t…don’t—” You weren’t sure what you were asking. His insistence didn’t surprise you in the least, but you didn’t want to start anything that would disrupt the peace the two of you’d spent so much time cultivating.

He seems to understand you despite your lack of vocal explanation. “Just gonna have a word with him, sweetheart. That’s all.”

Before he walked out the door, he asked very specifically for the Mediterranean chicken dish you’d made for him last week. Which was strange only because he never asked for anything specific; he simply asked you to cook whatever you felt like, and insisted that somehow you knew his cravings better than he himself did. 

It wasn’t until fifteen minutes later, as you put the chicken in the oven that you realized he’d done it to distract you, to take your mind off the situation at hand while he went and handled it. Helping you without even being in the same room.

When he came home, Joel answered all of your questions at the dinner table and said that he and Lee had shared a beer and talked it over. Warned you to expect an apology the next time you and Janet crossed paths. 

And sure enough, that weekend there was a knock on the front door. 

Joel stood behind you, a looming, protective presence at your back. A safety net as your neighbor apologized for her actions and offered a plate of chocolate chip cookies as amends.

You forgave her, of course. Even invited her in so the two of you could talk about it over a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade on the back porch. She compliments you on the roses growing in your garden and you clip a couple off to send her home with.

Problem solved. Amends made. 

All because of Joel. 

Your closest friends even teased you about it from time to time, making jokes about how spoiled you are, and about how much he cares for you.

When you’re out having a girls' night with the three of them, you share laughs and chips and salsa and have one too many glasses of wine. They all discuss sharing an Uber, but you interject to say, “No worries. Joel will make sure we get home safe.”

And they tease you about that, too, telling you, “You’ve got that big man wrapped tight around your little finger.”

But you’re not wrong, and you suppose your friends aren’t, either. Because he shows up at the diner ten minutes after you send him a text message, and deals with four drunk young women with such grace it’s almost astonishing. Even pulls a soft, secret smile as he listens to the group of you giggle together at something that’s probably not nearly as funny to him.

You asked him about it later, about that gentle amusement he wore, and he explained simply, “What makes you happy makes me happy, darlin.’” 

And you understand exactly what he means. Understand how your happiness, your frustrations, your love is mirrored perfectly in his heart. Because you feel it, too.

It’s why whenever he says he’s craving something, whether it’s fast food or some elaborate dish, you’ll always find a way to get it onto his dinner plate that night. It’s why you make an extra stop during grocery shopping to get that local ground coffee he likes. 

He’d said once how much he loves the way pale blue looks against your skin, and every time you shop for clothes you find yourself gravitating towards the shade. 

You do his laundry and put a towel in the dryer every time he steps in the shower so it’s warm when he gets out. You teach him about skincare and he sits dutifully in bed every Sunday night with a face mask on and a pore strip on his nose. You schedule his doctor and dentist appointments and have never once been successful at fighting off your wide grin as you tell the receptionist on the phone that you’re his wife and they refer to you as Mrs. Miller for the remainder of the call.

Give and take, push and pull—the two of you fit seamlessly together. You take care of him, and he takes care of you, and whatever was left each day you figured out together.

So, when you make your way to the kitchen one early morning to see his lunch still in the fridge, untouched, and his coffee mug in the sink and not the dishwasher, you know something must have gone awry. Something to disrupt his morning routine.

You find your phone only to read a text message he’d left you at six this morning. 

Good morning, sweet girl. Slept through my alarm, might have to stay over today to finish. Love you.

Joel’s an independent man, you know. Perfectly capable of taking care of himself. And you know he’ll likely buy lunch for himself and Tommy, likely some gas station pizza and a soda. But you don’t like the idea of him needing to do that. Don’t like the idea of him eating anything you don’t make for him just the way he likes.

So, you spend the morning getting all dolled up. You wear that pale blue sundress he likes. You curl your hair, coat your lashes in mascara, and spray that expensive, vanilla-scented perfume he got you for your birthday last year. 

And then you grab his lunch from the fridge and make your way to the construction site. You find Joel’s truck easily and park beside it. You’re not sure why, but being here makes your heart race. 

You’ve met the majority of the guys on his crew, and they all know who you are. Countless times you’ve forced Joel to bring in containers full of cookies and pastries you’d bake the night before to share. He’s even brought a couple of them home for dinner before, and invited their wives and kids to fill your home with a little extra love and laughter for the evening.

But for some reason, this feels…different. Like you’re encroaching on their territory, invading space that doesn’t belong to you.

They’re working inside some big structure that has only the framing and roof finished, wooden beams allotting space for each room. You can hear them shouting at each other and the sound of hammers striking nails into place. Somewhere a little further into the building, there’s the mechanical whirring of a drill, but you see no face you recognize.

One of the younger-looking men up in the rafters notices you first. “Well, hello there pretty little lady. Did you need some help?”

You open your mouth to speak, to ask where you might find Joel or even Tommy. But then—

“Dean, you look at my wife like that again and it’ll be the last time you have eyes to look at anyone.” Joel rests his hand on the small of your back as he saddles up to your side. You turn to face him, and can’t help your smirk upon discovering the intimidating scowl on his face that he directs to Dean. “Understand?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry about that, Mrs. Miller.”

“It’s alright, Dean. You didn’t know,” you insist. But Joel narrows his eyes even further and doesn’t stop until you playfully hit his bicep. “It’s fine.”

His expression softens considerably when he looks at you, deep frown turning into a warm smile instead. “Hey, baby girl.” Joel pulls you close, pressing his lips to yours, kissing you softly. Nothing out of the ordinary for him, nothing you don’t expect. But what you don’t expect is for his hand on the small of your back to sink lower, grabbing a lewd fist full of your ass.

The surprise has your lips parting, but Joel only takes it to his advantage, tongue slipping between them to glide smoothly against yours.

When he finally pulls away your face is flushed and he wears that satisfied smirk like armor. He glances up at Dean, whose ears are now red-hot even though he tries very hard to pretend like he’s busy. “I’m taking a twenty. Be back in a bit.”

He takes your hand in his and leads you back outside, and once he opens the passenger door of your truck he’s quick to put his hands on your hips and lift you to help you inside. 

You expect him to close the door and round the front of the truck to get in behind the wheel, but he doesn’t. Before you’re even able to turn and tuck your legs inside, he’s pushing you back against the leather seats and sliding his calloused hands up your thighs beneath your dress. “Joel,” you say, but you don’t attempt to stop him. 

The passenger door’s propped open, just enough to shield him from view as he stands behind it. “You’re so pretty,” he murmurs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your panties. He tugs them down and peppers open-mouthed kisses across the exposed skin of your chest, teeth nipping at your cleavage. But then he’s biting you—hard, and pressure pools low in your belly as his tongue flicks over the hurt to soothe. “Always take such good care of me. Had such a rough morning but seein’ you changes it all around.”

You’re giggling uncontrollably, overwhelmed by his sudden need, basking beneath the warmth of his praise. Your hands find his hair, tugging lightly at the ends. “We shouldn’t,” you say. “Someone will see. You’re crazy, old man, do you know that?”

“Yeah, crazy for you.” Normally you’d scold him some more, accuse him of being the absolute cheesiest man that you’ve ever met. But you don’t have the chance before he’s pushing your knees apart and pressing those hot, wet kisses to the inside of your thighs. “Can front all you want, but I’m not dumb, baby. Think you got all dressed up and came all this way for nothing? Nuh-uh.”

This hadn’t been your intention in the slightest, but now that you’re here, and his head’s between your thighs… “I just brought your lunch!” 

Joel smirks. “Fuckin’ right you did.”

You have to cover your mouth to quiet your laughter. “But…seriously. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Starving, sweetheart,” he says. “Now spread your legs.”

You do. Of course you do. 

And Joel makes quick work of you, wasting not a second before his tongue slides through your wet heat with expert precision. He hooks his arms around your thighs and drags you to the end of the leather seat, pressing his face against you. Your clit pulses with need and he takes care of that ache for you, too. Sucking it into his mouth, lapping at you with the flat of his tongue, ratcheting your pleasure to an almost unbearable place.

It doesn’t take long before your back is arching off the leather, hands tugging desperately at his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You’re whimpering his name and he’s letting out these deep, throaty groans that have your toes curling in your high-top sneakers.

In just a couple minutes he has you right there—right on the edge, so close to your orgasm you can taste it, and then he pulls away. You’re whining immediately, desperate whimpers falling for your lips. 

“Shh. S’alright, baby girl. I’m comin',’” Joel tells you. And then you watch through bleary, tear-filled eyes as he undoes his tool belt and sets it on the floor of his truck. 

The clink of his belt buckle reverberates through your ears, and you whimper again but before you can start begging he’s got his cock in his hand and he’s pressing the big, heavy tip into you. “Oh my God,” you cry, breath stuck in your lungs. 

It feels so good—he always does. He says, “C’mere, baby,” before gripping the front of your dress and pulling you up towards him. He hooks your legs around his hips and sinks into you slow, real slow. Gives you time to adjust to the size of him, time for your pussy to make room for it. He kisses you hard, and out of the corner of your eye, you can see the men on his team working thirty feet away. 

Your heart races in your chest and you think about warning him again that this might be a bad idea, but then he’s sinking his cock alllll the way into you, pushing against that sweet spot inside, and everything else fades into nothing. 

There’s nothing but Joel—your gentle, safe, loving husband, who always takes care of you and always will.

He pulls out slowly, moaning low, and then slams back into you. Again and again and again. He sets such a punishing pace that your eyes roll back and you have to sink your nails into his shoulders just to ground yourself, his gray cotton t-shirt soft and familiar beneath your fingertips. “Fuck, fuck, Joel.”

“Pretty pussy’s squeezin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby,” he says. “Know just what to give her. Know just what she needs.”

You can feel your slick coating the inside of your thighs, your orgasm creeping right back up your spine as if it’d never faded in the first place. He squeezes your thighs hard enough to bruise but it only brings you higher, gets you closer. Your clit pulses and you swear you can feel his cock throbbing inside you in tandem, a perfect man made just for you.

His hips slam into you, bringing you closer and closer and closer, until finally— “Joel, Joel, I—oh my god, shit—!”

“Ohh, sweet girl…you gonna cum for me? Hm? Feels that good? Needed it that bad, didn’t you,” he says, and it’s not a question because he just knows.

“Yes, yes, please—Joel, I’m gonna—!”

He takes a hand and grips the back of your neck, forcing you to look up at him. “I know, baby, s’alright. Give it to me. Yeah, that’s it. There you go.”

Your orgasm hits you hard, makeup smearing as your eyes water. Every nerve ending flares on end, euphoria washing over you and pulling your senses taut. “Cum with me, cum with me, oh god.”

He fucks you through it, and it only takes a couple more meaningful strokes before his hips are stuttering. Joel presses his forehead to yours and kisses you gently, spilling inside you with his cock pressed into you as deep as he can get. He cums with you and the words that leave his mouth as he reaches the summit give you goosebumps. “Love you, sweet girl. Love you so fuckin’ much.”

When he finally comes down, Joel’s panting breaths are in perfect sync with yours. He kisses your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. And when you start giggling he breaks out that soft, gentle smile and it turns your insides to mush.

You wince as he slowly pulls out of you and stuffs himself back into his jeans, pulling on the leather of his belt and fastening it back into place.

“Still have a couple minutes before you have to get back,” you say, cheeks warming as he helps you slide your panties back up your legs. “You really should eat something. Like, actual food. Sustenance.”

“Oh, I’m plenty satisfied,” he jokes. But when you unzip his cooler and sift through it, pulling out the turkey, tomato, and cheese sandwich you’d made him last night, he takes it from you with greedy hands. 

He eats quickly and you watch him in awe, unbelieving that he’s real, and much less that you’d somehow convinced him to love you. A perfect man, all your own, so beautiful and kind and selfless. You don’t think anyone’s loved anymore more than you love Joel.

Playfully, he taps the tip of your nose as he wolfs down the last bite of his sandwich. “What’re you thinkin’ about?”

“Just you,” is your answer.

“Me?”

“About how much I love you.”

His smile widens and he reaches his hand out, cradling your face, running his thumb along your cheekbone. “I don’t deserve you, sweetheart.”

You press your face into his hand, bottom lip jutting out. A part of you wants to beg him to come home early, to use a sick day, and hold you for hours. But instead, you kiss the palm of his hand and jump out of the truck, gravel crunching beneath your feet. “You should probably get back. Don’t want you staying any later than you have to.”

Joel lets out a heavy sigh but nods his head in agreement. He closes the door of his truck and opens the door to your car instead. “Get home safe, alright? I’ll try and get this done as soon as I can. You want me to pick something up after for dinner? Kinda cravin’ pizza.”

“Let me know when you’re leaving the site and I’ll call and put in an order for pickup. Get one for Tommy too so he can take it with him. Wanna make sure he eats. Sound good?”

He kisses you hard and nods. “Sounds real good. See you at home, baby girl.”

“I’ll be waiting on the porch,” you promise.

Like you always are. Like you always will be.

[jjlevin]

This is soooo good!💥🥵 I love this dynamic

[chillinini]

blush - azriel x reader

a blurb

🫶🏻summary: making azriel blush shouldn’t be so easy.

Azriel was the definition of broody.

Cold.

Unfazed.

The way his hazel eyes held so much boredom—you hated all of it.

So, you came up with a teensy, tiny little plan.

Getting a reaction out of him seemed nearly impossible. He had seen it all, learned it all, and heard it all. But the way he tried to act nonchalant whenever he blushed? That was his - and your - weakness.

The plan was simple: make him blush whenever and however you could. Because seeing that pink hue slowly creeping up his neck, ears, and handsome face?

It triggered ovulation.

The plan began one morning during training. He was already there with Cassian, their eyes still bleary at the crack of dawn, wings slightly droopy and senses a little dull. You greeted both of them, your eyes slowly but surely locking onto Azriel.

He stood tall, shadows swirling lazily around his broad shoulders, wings stretching wide. Yet, it was the dark circles under his beautiful eyes that made your heart squeeze painfully.

You knew he worked too hard and barely slept; with whatever strength he had left, he tried to put up a facade, masking the way his guard was cracking. You hated Rhysand a little for that.

Cass and Az slowly began to circle each other, swords raised high and eyes now determined. Sweat glistened on both men.

You couldn't help but shout when Azriel passed you a fleeting look.

"That shirt's doing you no favors. Take it off!"

Cassian roared with laughter, his head thrown back and shoulders shaking.

Azriel, though? He froze. His eyes widened, but there wasn't a hint of annoyance in them. And when his cheeks warmed fast, the color rising before he could stop it?

You pocketed it like a total victory.

—-

Dinner at the River House could be described in one single word: chaos.

Nyx was throwing food left and right while Feyre tried desperately to stop him. But before either parent could react or reach him, his spoon was already raised, sending food flying across the table. Cassian laughed, chewed food displayed in his open mouth as he ate like a pig, earning a sharp scolding from Nesta for his childlike manners. Meanwhile, Mor was drinking more wine than should be humanly possible, and Amren sat silently—or not so silently—judging everyone in the room.

After surviving the ordeal of dinner, wine glass in hand, you sat down next to Azriel on the couch. His wings automatically curled around you, creating a private, shadowed cocoon. You fought the blush trying to creep up your own cheeks; it wasn't your turn to blush.

"I can feel your heartbeat. Is that for me?" you asked innocently, blinking up at him from under your lashes.

Azriel looked completely dumbfounded, though a small smile tugged at his lips. "People who tend to be alive usually have heartbeats."

"Ah. Boring."

He raised an eyebrow, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against his muscular thigh. "What's boring about being alive?"

"You, not getting flirty," you stated as a matter of fact.

His lip twitched. "Are you trying to flirt with me?"

"Yes. Is it working?"

He looked entirely taken aback by your straightforwardness. He didn't say a word, entirely trapped as he held your gaze. He cleared his throat, but no sound followed.

Yet, under the warm, golden lights of the sitting room, a soft heat settled across his face, completely giving him away.

You bit your bottom lip, a huge, satisfied grin spreading across your face.

—-

Fighting consciousness after a wild night at Rita’s—when Cassian would bribe you into shot competitions you always lost—was nothing compared to this. Hangovers were a joke. Nobody ever told you how exhausting it actually was to fight for your life while actively bleeding out.

"You fucking idiot," Azriel hissed.

His voice didn't have its usual icy calm; it was raw, jagged with a panic you’d never heard from him before. He dragged you behind a shattered stone wall for safety, his large, scarred hands slamming down onto your side. The agonizing pressure made you hiss, your heels digging into the dirt.

"When have I ever told you to jump in front of a lethal blow, you nuisance?" Azriel’s shadows were frantic, whipping around him in a chaotic storm as he desperately tried to stanch the flow of blood. "Look at me! Open your godsdamned eyes, for fuck's sake!"

You forced your heavy eyelids up, your vision blurring at the edges. Even covered in grime and terror, he was beautiful.

"I like the way you say my name," you whispered, a weak smile pulling at your lips. You could taste the copper coating your teeth. "Say it again."

"Mother above, shut up," he choked out, his hands trembling against your wound.

"But you like it... when I say shit like that."

"I fucking do!" He yelled, a fierce, desperate sound. "But you have a death wish, I swear to the Cauldron. Don't you dare close your eyes."

"One kiss before I die?" you coughed.

"You are not going to die!"

"So... no kiss?" you murmured, your lips pouting.

"You can get a kiss when you stop being so godsdamn reckless," he promised fiercely, leaning down so his forehead rested against yours, his breath hot and ragged.

Despite the horror of the blood on his hands, despite the battle raging around you, a stark, unmistakable heat bloomed along his cheekbones, vivid against his pale skin. He couldn't hide it, no matter how hard he tried.

You were going to be the death of him, surely—if you didn't survive this first.

—-

Azriel was hunched over a stack of reports. His eyes were intensely focused on the text, yet his shadows were deeply restless.

"You're staring," he said, stating it as a simple matter of fact without even looking up from the papers.

"I am," you replied calmly, cradling a warm cup of coffee in your hands.

He let out a quiet sigh, but the faint ghost of a smile lingered on his lips. You strolled over to where he sat, leaning over his shoulder under the pretense of being deeply curious about his work. At your proximity, his shadows darted toward his ears, then splattered down across the floorboards, a few brave tendrils winding playfully around your ankles.

His massive wings widened slightly, twitching in a sudden flash of tension.

"You're standing really close," he murmured.

"Yeah? Are you gonna move?" You raised an eyebrow, looking down at him expectantly as you took a slow, deliberate sip of your coffee.

Azriel snorted, finally looking up to meet your gaze. His expression was calm and cool, but not entirely collected—a faint, telltale color was spreading across his cheekbones, subtle but impossible to ignore.

Yet, when he spoke, his voice didn't waver a bit. "You know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you?"

Your heart skipped a beat.

"I could ruin you," you countered, your voice dropping, trying to hold your ground.

Azriel’s smile softened into something devastatingly handsome. "I know."

And just like that, under the weight of his unyielding gaze, he managed to make you blush at your own game.

————————————————————————

@shadowdaddiesclub

[billyrayjo]

I love you, I'm sorry

Pairing: Azriel x reader

Description: Things between you and Azriel had been going great, until he comes home from a mission wrapped around another. Realizing it wasn't as serious to him, you run. Just intending to take a walk, things go south when you realize you're in trouble... and the shadowsinger might just not care.

Tags/ Warnings: Angst, injury, hurt/comfort, Azriel is a meanie, Cassian being Cassian.

Smoothing the skirts of your gown, your gaze couldn't help but fall on the necklace you hadn't taken off in weeks. Azriel had gifted it to you for solstice, the blue of the gem looking suspiciously similar to that of his siphons.

You wouldn't say you were courting, per se. Your relationship had simply bloomed on its own into something neither of you had ever bothered to name.

Your fingers drifted over the stone's surface, and for the first time all day, the tightness in your shoulders began to ease. Azriel was meant to be home tonight.

It was no surprise to you that Rhysand had deemed Azriel's mission over the same night he intended to host a feast for the inner circle and outside friends. According to your High Lord, Azriel was due back any moment now, the details of his mission unbeknownst to you. You were just excited to see him.

Azriel had gone on a few missions since this relationship had intensified, the male always seeking you out the second his feet touched down on the balcony of the house of wind.

You hadn't intended to miss him so much. Things were still fairly new, and to feel this attached to him was almost alarming. You weren't used to having someone to wait for, unsure if you should act overly joyful at his return or a little more nonchalant.

Shaking your head for some clarity, you let your gaze fall upon your figure one last time. You had chosen the best getup you had available for the occasion, something in you itching to see the reaction of the shadowsinger. The dark fabric and intricate lace might have been on purpose to reference his shadows, but that was insignificant.

He always took you in appreciatively, whether in a nightgown or training leathers, his gaze slowly dropping to your feet before rising to your face. You felt your cheeks heat at the memory of the way his eyes darkened when landing on you.

Finally tearing your gaze from the mirror, you cleared your throat from the intensity before making your way out of your bed chambers.

The violins grew louder as you neared the party, your shoes clicking lightly against the stone of the ground beneath you. Finally catching sight of a few guests, you sighed in relief when your eyes fell on Mor already chatting up a familiar looking couple.

Timidly approaching her, you let your hand meet her arm before she turned to look at you, her gaze lighting up immediately at the recognition.

"Finally! I was starting to think you weren't coming!"

You giggled as her arms wrapped around your neck, her stance slightly wobbly likely from the wine glass already clutched in her fire red nails.

"I see someone has already cracked open the wine..."

She lightly smacked at your still outstretched hand, the glass sloshing lightly at her movements. Pulling entirely away from the couple she was previously speaking to, she wrapped her arm around yours before leading you deeper into the party.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I know you're just itching for a glass yourself." She huffed, heels clacking along as she kept her pace beside you.

An hour or two later, you were three glasses in, watching amusedly as Cassian reenacted an interaction he had in the market earlier this week.

"I don't understand why it's so laughable that I, warlord and killer of men, would be interested in personal hygiene?! You should've seen the females giggling from the stall over!"

A content laughter settled among the few fae around him, his expression exaggerated as if waiting for someone to answer his rhetorical question. Just when he seemed ready to continue, his posture stiffened at something he was seeing behind your back.

Furrowing your brows in confusion, you went to look behind you when Cassian's hand suddenly landed on your shoulder.

"Hey! Why don't we- uh- would you like to come get a drink with me?"

You could see the nervous gulp trail down his throat as his gaze searched yours, his eyebrows lifted almost in a plead as he gently pulled you toward him. Glancing down at your almost full wine glass, you lifted your gaze back to him confused, raising it slightly to catch his attention. It would have almost been comical if he didn't look so close to soiling his trousers.

"Not you, silly! Me! I need a drink, you know, all this 'working the crowd' has really dried out my thr-"

His plead was interrupted by a few gasps from the fae around you, your attention quickly snapping back to the situation at hand. Just as you went to turn around a second time, Cassian quickly pulled you again, your wine splashing over the rim and onto your fingers.

"Hey! What is going on with you? What is everyone starting at-"

Just as the words passed your lips, your gaze finally landed behind you. Across the party, an unmistakable spymaster was stood in the crowd. Feeling your pulse increase at his presence, you let your body fully turn in his direction, eager to greet him.

You were stopped in your tracks as your gaze lowered, your feet coming to an abrupt halt when you noticed a manicured hand wrapped around his bicep. Eyes quickly shooting to his right, you felt your heart stop entirely as your eyes fell on a beautiful fae woman. His eyes were on her as she laughed, her gaze more than friendly as she looked up at him.

All you could manage was a small "Oh." as Cassian appeared at your side, his hand finding your arm and tugging again.

Letting him steer you away from the sight, the gears in your mind began turning as you walked with him to his unknown destination. Voices invaded your mind, whispers from the party guests. Statements along the lines of "Azriel never brings a female" or "I wonder if he has found his mate". You only snapped out of your spiral momentarily when you heard a door shut behind you.

"Look y/n. I know what it looks like. Just listen to me-"

You raised your hand abruptly, cutting him off.

"What it looks like? Cass, it's what it is. You don't have to try and spare my feelings."

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, a frustrated sigh leaving his lips.

"No y/n seriously. Let me explain."

You took in his devastated features, matching his look with your own. How awful that Cassian would have to be the one to let you down easily, his own brother too occupied to reject you himself.

"No Cass. It's fine. You don't have to explain for him."

You quickly turned away from him, dropping your glass on a nearby table. You didn't realize you were crying until you caught your reflection in the mirror above it, tears trailing through the makeup you had spent hours perfecting.

Steeling yourself in the reflection, you didn't let Cassian speak another word before you were gone. The rage and utter betrayal in your mind blending into one tainted landscape. Where the winds matched the ice you felt in your veins, the temperatures as brutal as the thrum in your heart.

Landing on your knees, you didn't even have to look up to know where you had landed. The snow cushioned your fall, pooling around the skirts of your gown. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you stared, watching as a thin layer of sleet covered your lap almost instantly.

Letting your hands fall to your sides, your fingers didn't even flinch as they came in contact with the freezing sludge beneath you. You just sat there, letting your body become one with the elements and bring you back to reality.

It didn't take long before you felt the biting chill racing across your skin, your gown not doing anything to shield from the biting winds. It was refreshing.

This place was not unfamiliar. You had been here before, many times. When you had nightmares, when you were so overwhelmed with emotion you couldn't escape, your mind always conjured you here. You don't know why, but the place that once seemed to frighten you was now calling with open arms. The one place nobody knew. The place of your deepest fears, now becoming your sanctuary.

Nobody would be crazy enough to follow you out here. Even if they somehow knew where you were.

It felt like hours had passed when you finally stood. Body uncontrollably jerking with the cold, you forced yourself onto unsteady feet. Letting your gaze fall on your destination, you took in the twisted black trees and steady downpour of sleet. The hairs on the back of your neck immediately stood. Something was watching from the darkness.

Whipping around at a cracking twig beside you, your hands immediately raised in defense, body tightening with anticipation. Feeling your breaths tumble past your lips, you couldn't help the jumps in your muscles from the freezing temperatures. As you squinted through the snowfall, you made out a large figure twisting its' way through the forest.

You jumped when you heard another sound behind you, forcing you to take your eyes off the first creature and check your blindspot in case of an ambush. Not seeing anything, you quickly whipped your head back to the original threat, but were shocked into a gasp when the creature appeared right in front of you. Tripping over your own feet, you gathered your skirts in your hand and ran.

Jumping over roots, ankles twisting and bending at awkward angles, you ran through the snow as fast as you could. Your toes were numb as the snow soaked through your slippers, making it even harder to measure your steps. You checked behind you every few steps, anguish crawling up your throat in a scream as you realized it was gaining on you faster than you anticipated.

Deciding running wasn't going to save you, you swallowed your fear and stopped your steps. Whipping around, you prepared to strike at the monster on your heels. A shudder crashed through you at the sight of it.

It was nothing you had ever seen before. A large reptile-like head rested on an even larger body, the moon glinting off of massive claws digging into the slush before you. It's long serpent-like neck twisted and turned as it looked at you, teeth baring and tongue lashing curiously as it sized you up.

You didn't even have a chance to take in the creature before it was pouncing, teeth chomping at the space your head was just in. Dodging, you tucked and weaved as quickly as you could to dodge its' blows. As you danced around the creature, you could hear its' voice in hissing whispers, and one of them made you stop dead in your tracks.

"The Ssssspymasssterssss mate!"

You could only stare as its' tongue flicked with each 'S', a pang of confusion almost knocking you back harder than one of the creature's blows.

Your moment of pause would cost you.

Before you could even utter a word, one of the creatures scaled legs soared, its claws sinking right into your side. You could feel as each claw pushed through your ribs, nothing but a small wheeze escaping as you held the intense eye contact. The searing pain was nothing compared to the memory you'd have of those eyes, holding your own like it never wanted you to forget. Your body had no choice but to collapse where you stood, the world blurring until you were looking up at the sky above you. You could barely make out a scaled tail whipping above you as the creature slipped into the night.

Your hand clutched your side, white hot pain shooting through you. You sucked in a ragged breath, only for it to catch as fluid invaded your lungs. A harsh cough wracked your body, your body convulsing and warm liquid spilling out onto your face.

Trying and failing to suck in a full breath, your battered body jerked and pulsed with the pain, your vision becoming hazy for a moment before focusing back on the night sky. You could feel the sleet hitting your face harshly, forcing your eyes to blink rapidly.

The wind howled around you, the once still trees looking alive as the rays of the moon slipped between their branches. You could hear the whistle of the wind through them, creaks and groans echoing around you at the pressure pushing against them.

Just as your vision blurred a second time, you thought you heard something. Your fae ears twitched, straining against the raging winds around you. Hope bloomed in your chest, fragile, as you listened.

There it was.

Faint at first, then louder.

"Y/n!" a voice bellowed through the trees. "Answer me, sweetheart!"

Your heart lurched.

Azriel.

Every instinct urged you to call out, to let him know you were here and you needed him. You opened your mouth, but only a weak broken gurgle escaped past the blood on your lips. Pain ripped through your chest.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the shrill trail of tears down your temples, the realization that Azriel wouldn't find you in time bringing a rough cry past your lips.

Your heart lurched a second time as another shout cut through the trees.

"Y/n?" His voice cracked with panic. "I hear you, baby."

Footsteps thundered through the forest, growing closer with every passing second, branches snapping beneath his steps. Shadows stirred between the trees, racing ahead of their master.

"I'm coming." he called, breathless. "Hold on for me. I'm coming."

Your blurry gaze catches a movement in the tree line before you, branches separating and snow falling as a tall figure bursts through. Before you can even orient yourself Azriel has landed on his knees beside you, the glow of his siphons drawing your focus to his chest.

Hands come up to cradle your face, your eyes flickering to his own as his head blocks your line of sight to the sky above. You can feel the trail of blood running down your chin when you attempt to smile up at him.

You can feel his hands leave your face as he assesses your body, another gurgle coming from you when his hand comes in contact with the wound on your side.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” he coos, his free hand coming back up to wipe at the tears rolling down your temple.

Your hand comes up to grab at his resting on your hair now, your own blood coating your fingers visible in your peripheral.

A broken sound leaves his lips as you choke once again, an almost feral growl you had never heard from him before.

His shadows slowly start to surround you, and before you can attempt another breath, his face steeles into one of resolve.

“I’m going to winnow you. I have to get you back to Velaris so Madja can help.” his hands automatically start moving to hold your body to his, one sliding beneath your back and the other cradling the back of your head.

At the movement, you can’t help the wince that tumbles past your lips.

“I know it hurts, sweetheart. But you have to stay with me, okay? Can you do that for me?” his eyes are pleading when he locks them with your own, his breaths trembling.

With as much of a nod as you can muster, you brace yourself for the pain about to consume you.

Azriel brings your body to his, tucking your face into the crook of his neck. You watch in awe as the shadows surround you fully. You had never been surrounded by such complete and utter darkness.

You can hear Azriel talking to you, a repeated “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry” passing through your ears as the world around you disappears.

With the warp through time, you can feel your entire being teetering over the edge of life and death. The pressure on your limbs is so strong you can do nothing but hold your breath, praying to the mother that you make it to the other side.

Azriel might love another, but you still have friends, a family waiting for you. Even though your heart was on the verge of breaking, you still had hope. Hope for happiness and a future where you didn’t feel like this.

Just as a bright white began taking over your vision, Azriel clutching to you like he would never let go again, the shadows dissipated. You could feel the coolness of their embrace leave you suddenly, before your consciousness began to fade.

Muffled in the background, you could hear Azriel yelling. “Get Madja! She doesn’t have much longer. She can’t breathe.” tore through his lips as your body transferred from his to a softer surface. You finally could let your mind relax.

The first thing to return to you was sound. You could hear the faint crackling in the hearth, a soft sound coming from the fae lights around you. Letting your ears tune into the new environment, your fingers began searching of their own volition.

A soft, familiar texture smoothed under your fingertips, the warmth of the comforter feeling foreign after so long in the cold.

Clearing your throat, your eyes immediately popped open when you realized that there was no longer anything interfering with your breaths.

It took a moment for your vision to clear, almost as if the sleet had to clear away before you could fully take in your surroundings. Slowly sitting up, you winced at the pinch in your side.

Your brows furrowed as you realized that this was not your room. The dark bedding and wall of daggers gave you a good idea of whose bed you were occupying, but you weren’t sure why.

Realizing you were alone in the room, you forced your legs to swing over the side of the bed, the grunt of effort an added reminder of the trauma your body had gone through.

You didn’t even stop to take in your appearance, which you were sure had been cleaned up by some form of magic, before tiptoeing through the cracked bedroom door.

It took a couple of stops against the wall before you began hearing muffled voices in the dining room. Your fae healing had gotten you this far, but you weren’t entirely confident in your own movements.

Steeling yourself and taking a calming breath, you prepared yourself to see the Illyrian you were sure held your broken heart in his own two, scarred, hands. Right as you were about to round the corner, you stopped again when you heard the smooth timbre of his voice rumbling through the room.

“And nobody thought to fucking tell her that?”

Realizing you were the topic of discussion, you decided to stop the inevitable and make your presence known. You only made it two steps into the room before every head snapped in your direction, and another two before your body was brutally crushed into an embrace.

“Oh, thank the mother! I am so glad you’re alr- wai- what are you doing out of bed?!” Mor’s voice screeched against your ear. You could only wince as she bombarded you, her arms immediately pulling back as she jerked herself away from you.

You only smiled apologetically at her as her expression filled with guilt. It only took two seconds before that look turned into one of gratitude, her body coming in to hug you a lot more gently the second time around.

A round of agreements and scolds met you as Mor finally released you, your gaze jumping around the room to take in the entire inner circle. Out of nerves, your eyes purposely avoided the darkest corner of the room.

You could feel the cool drag of shadows as they assessed your frame, only steeling yourself further until they were content and sliding back to their master.

As all eyes stayed locked on your form, you finally cleared your throat once more before letting out a scratchy “Anyone got any water?”

After what felt like hours, you had finally finished explaining every detail of your mishap with the serpent like creature. Leaving out the tidbit about your rescue, everyone seemed content enough to begin parting for their own duties. With an order to rest and hydrate, you also turned to leave the dining room when a deep voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Can we talk?”

Your body felt frozen as you took in his voice. A mixture of exhaustion and sadness finding you from across the room.

Keeping your back turned to him, you let everybody else pass you by before swallowing your nerves and turning to face him.

You could only bring yourself to look at his chest, his fighting leathers now traded for a black shirt and trousers. You could see the daunting outline of his wings behind him, your fingers immediately coming to twist in front of you.

You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, gaze dropping as you waited for him to break the silence.

It took a few long moments, but the first words to leave him almost had your mouth dropping in shock.

“Can you look at me please?”

Your eyes immediately lifted to his own, a frown of confusion painting your face when you took in the sight of him.

His hair was disheveled as if he had been vigorously running his fingers through it, his under eyes dark and a shadow forming on the lower half of his face.

Just as you went to blurt out something, anything, his form crossed the room. He looked almost afraid to get too close to you, choosing instead to stop with a good yard of distance between you.

Your eyes flickered between his own as you processed your thoughts, unsure what you were really supposed to say. Before you could get out a word, his rough voice stopped you again.

“How are you feeling?”

You were a bit taken aback by his question. A few embarrassing stutters leaving you before you finally coughed up a quick “Good. I feel pretty good.”

Your fingers kept violently twisting as he eyed you up and down, your brain bouncing a million different questions around before it finally settled on one.

You didn’t even have a moment to second guess before the words were forcing past your lips.

“Am I your mate?”

A look of certain shock passed over Azriel’s face before he steeled himself again, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. His hand came up to run through his hair as his face portrayed the inner turmoil clearly a jumbled mess in his brain.

“I only ask because before that… snake thing… attacked me it hissed out something along the lines of ‘the spymaster’s mate’ and it really confused me because after the party I’m not really sure what’s going on. I understand if you were planning to reject the bond for that female but why string me along before then, you know? I thought something was forming between us but now I think I might have just been exaggerating things in my own mind- I mean, that woman was beautiful, and I understand why you would choose her over me but-“

You only stopped to take a breath as Azriel roared a growl, your body flinching back as he whirled towards the dining table. He looked as if he was about to break something before his hand came up to rub at his chest.

Your shocked gaze stared at his back as his shoulders heaved, his wings twitching wildly before pulling tightly back into their normal position.

A sigh that carried the weight of the world left him before he whirled back around, his legs taking two more steps toward you. His hand reached out as if to touch you before he seemingly thought better of it and brought it back to pinch at the bridge of his nose instead.

“Reject you? Y/n, please, you’re killing me.” his face held nothing but anguish as he brought his gaze back up to meet yours. “Rhysand asked me to escort that female to the party. She was linked to some Illyrian’s we’ve been monitoring and he wanted me to get more intel. Fuck, I would’ve never- I never- Cassian was supposed to tell you. He was supposed to tell you before the party started but he was too busy following Nesta around like a lost pu- oh fuck this.”

He seemed to decide against the last part of his explanation before he closed the rest of the distance between you. Your breath caught at the proximity when his hands came up to cradle your jaw, his eyes piercing yours as a confused furrow took over your brow.

Without realizing, your hands came up to grip his forearms, your eyes fleeting between his own as you processed his words.

His body only pressed closer to yours as you hesitated, the gears running a mile a minute in your mind.

“I swear to you, y/n. There is no one else in this galaxy I would’ve rather been with than you. I hate that you even questioned my feelings for you. I’m yours. I have been since the day we met.”

His eyes only intensified his words as you searched them, the gold flecks throughout his orbs almost glowing as they locked with yours.

You felt the trail of a tear before you could stop it, your lip wobbling for a reason unbeknownst to you. Azriel was quick to wipe it away, his forehead coming down to rest against yours. His voice lowered to a whisper as he continued.

“I almost lost it when I heard you were missing. I don’t even remember leaving the party or how I knew where to find you. I would tear this world apart inch by inch if it meant keeping you safe, sweetheart. I promise you that.”

Your breath shuddered through a gasp as more tears made their way down your cheeks. Letting your eyes fall closed, you shook your head against his before meeting his gaze again.

“So basically you’re saying that my disappearance was a slight overreaction?” you whispered, your teeth finding your lip as you waited for his reaction, a smile threatening to break out on your face.

Azriel shuddered a laugh of disbelief, his hands pulling you fully into his embrace. You could’ve sworn you saw a slight wetness in his eyes before your face was tucked firmly into his neck.

You and Azriel had reluctantly split after your embrace caused a sudden twinge in your side, his warmth immediately turning into panic at the wince that left your lips.

You had parted with the promise that you would get some rest before finding him in the morning to finish your conversation.

Flipping harshly onto your other side, you sighed in frustration as sleep continued to evade you. Every time you closed your eyes you saw manicured nails, serpent like eyes, and the look on Azriel’s face as it assessed your form on the floor of the woods. Also, the mantra of mate, mate, mate playing on a loop in your mind didn’t help.

Kicking the blankets off of your legs, you didn’t give yourself time to rethink your movements as you tiptoed out of your bedroom and towards Azriel’s. Pausing at his door, you let your knuckles lightly tap the surface before you heard a quick “Come in”.

Pushing past the threshold, you let the door close behind you before you made yourself as small as possible in his doorway. Wringing your fingers again, you slowly gazed up at Azriel, sitting wide awake in bed with a book resting on his chest.

You twisted your mouth in contemplation before letting out a small “I can’t sleep.”, your gaze dropping to your bare feet before snapping back up at the sound of rustling blankets.

Azriel had lifted his duvet, his body sliding further into the bed as he gestured for you to join him.

Shyly stalking towards his bed, you gently climbed into the open space next to him before his hands immediately made contact and brought you into his embrace.

The position almost ended up being a horizontal hug, your head tucked under his chin. One arm was wrapped around your waist as the other rested under your head, his hand coming up to twist a strand of your hair. His wing folded over the both of you, the lights instantly dimming into a soft glow through the membrane.

You slowly tilted your head back to meet his eyes, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you took in his features. Letting it out as a whisper, you started with “I’m sorry for bothering you..” only to be immediately cut off.

Azriel tucked your head back into his neck, his chest rising with a deep inhale before he whispered back.

“Shhh. This is the best moment of my life.”

[tunetales]

I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

Taglist:

@nyxmoretti @itmekelpy @plants-w0rld @nebarious @delulustar @starinisstuff @totis-things @sparkyspiers @booksstarryskies @bxm-2121 @spookypersondinosaur @kuraemiii @karolamurdock @shadowmaurader @acourtofbatboydreams

[jjlevin]

“Who hurt you” gets me every time, but ohhhhh boy Azriel just levels it up huh

[idkyetxoxo]

A Secret Return | Rhysand | Series Masterlist

Pairing - Rhysand x reader

Summary - Five years ago, she fled with a secret—the son Rhysand never knew existed.

She built a quiet, hidden life... until the day her little boy runs straight into the arms of the High Lord she swore she'd never face again.

One look at the child with his violet eyes, and Rhysand knows the truth.

Dragged back into each other's orbit, old wounds reopen, lies, heartbreak, fear, and the pull between them that never died. Rhys is determined to earn a place in his child's life and in hers, no matter how many years were stolen from him.

A story of second chances, stolen years, found family, and a love stubborn enough to survive fate itself—if she's brave enough to claim it.

Tags - hidden child, accidental reunion, second chance romance, hurt/comfort, domestic moments, family bonding

Contents -

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ One | Starlight in Spring | 2.8k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Two | Old Wounds | 3.1k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Three | Where Worlds Collide | 2.4k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Four | Roots in the Rainbow | 2.9k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Five | Consequences | 3.1k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Six | Reaching Back | 2.1k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Seven | Begin Again | 2.1k words

ʕ•ﻌ•ʔ Eight | Starlight in Night | 2.3k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

Theo and Winter's book from the Chestnut Springs series was one of my absolute favourites, and it definitely helped inspire this fic. I'm a sucker for the secret child trope, the whole "learning each other again" arc is always so sweet!!

This time the child is a boy (since in "Starlight" we already got our baby girl, Velaria!). I thought it would be fun to explore the father–son dynamic with Rhys this round :)

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your votes and comments mean the world to me <3

[jjlevin]

This whole thing is so lovely and emotional and I want to read it all over again🥹

… also feel a little bad for Cyrus.

[writingsbychlo]

by moonlight | azriel

summary; you come home after a long few days away.

word count; 3804

notes; I got suddenly inspired by last nights cass fic. what can I say? I’ve been wanting to write for two weeks with no energy or time, I’m so happy to finally be able to.

As the night swept away from around you, you turned, finding that Rhys was already gone as you twisted. A simple drop off, that had been it, and the dark and stars were swallowing him once again. You couldn't blame him, it was the middle of the night, and he was practically falling asleep at his desk when you’d found him. You were almost falling asleep where you stood.

Light still filled the rooms, spilling out into the inky darkness between pale pillars, and you followed the muffled voices through to the dining room. As you entered, two heads snapped up from the table, matching smiles painting across their faces as they took you in. Cassian and Nesta were sitting at the table, a half-eaten board of cheese and crackers, two empty wine bottles and a third broken into, cards scattered around them. 

“You’re home early!” Nesta perked up, and you shrugged, dropping your bag down from your shoulder to sit at your feet as you wandered over. Leaning your hip on the table, the yawn threatening to break free from you was hardly contained. 

“I worked hard to get it done quicker, you know how I hate going away for too long.” You truly did, the worst part about your job was the days away on end on missions, too silent and too lonely on missions as you spent time away from your family. 

“That’s how I trained ya’.” Cassian winked, your brows raising at him as you reached out to pluck a cracker and a slice of cheese from the platter, nibbling on the end of it. 

“How you trained me?” You flicked a loose piece of cracker at him, and it bounced off his forehead, crumbling into pieces that rained down onto his lap as his mate snickered. 

“Alright, how we trained each other.” His amendment was good enough, you were too tired to argue anything else, and he beamed at the nod you gave. Nesta chuckled again, smirking as she laid down another card on the set-up before you both. Cassian took it in, eyes widening a fraction, and then he let out a filthy curse under his breath. Nesta kicked his shin under the table, but the prideful expression only grew at his frustration. 

Swallowing down the snack, you leaned over his shoulder, examining his card through sleep-blurred eyes and an exhaustion-muddled mind. You pointed to the King of Hearts, and he was quick to lay it down. After a half-second, Nesta was letting out an equally terrible curse and Cassian kicked her ankle this time. She kicked back. 

“How are you still beating us at this game when you can barely stand up?” Your friend was not happy, her brows pulling tight as she concentrated harder on the strategy game before herself. 

“Nesta’s just mad because now in one move, I’m winning!” She stuck her tongue out at you and Cassian. “There’s some tea in the kitchen, go get a mug and go to bed. You look exhausted.”

“Just what every girl wants to hear. Always the charmer, Cass.” Despite it all, you leaned down, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as one arm wrapped around your waist to squeeze you to his side in a hug, eyes never leaving the cards. You shifted, kicking your bag to the other side of the table and pressing a matching kiss to the top of Nesta’s head. She puckered her lips and blew a kiss back, equally focused. Scooping up your bag and throwing it over one sore shoulder, you tried not to groan. 

“Goodnight, you two.”

“Night!” They sang in unison as you walked away, headed to the kitchen as a pot of hot tea called your name. “Y’know, for that comment before, you’ll never have enough moves to win later tonight, now.”

You smirked at their conversation as it faded into the background. The kitchen smelled like brewed herbs that made the cloudy tiredness of your head only thicken, your eyes feeling so heavy you could fall asleep where you stood. Grabbing two mugs from the top shelf, you poured hot tea into both, inhaling the streams of swirling steam and feeling a little tension melt from your body. 

A shower, that's what you needed before you could sleep. You were stiff and sore and achy, and a hot shower would release all of that before you could get a good night’s sleep. Maybe the whole day’s sleep as well. You’d need it.

Making your way back through the corridors, every step closer and closer to your mate made your heart swell, feeling as though it was going to burst right out of your heart. Though you’d never put your walls up against him, you both knew that the bond had to stay quiet and cold and borderline dead when you were on missions, and one of your favourite parts of coming home was getting to feel it come back to life, feeling your chest spark back to life and the warmth of his love lighting you up.

Currently, the feeling inside of your chest was utter content relaxation, steady and soft and barely there. Not the usual influx of emotions, passionate and strong and heady like usual, the kind you got when he was tired, asleep, or drunk. Your suspicions were only confirmed as you used your elbow to open the door quietly, the door scraping across soft carpet to reveal the large bedroom you shared. 

Laying on the huge Illyrian-accommodating bed, spread out across the mattress was your lover, wings folded away behind his back as he sat nestled among the piles of pillows. Plump lips parted, he was taking steady breaths, hair messy and glasses askew across his face. He was most definitely asleep, his shadows were practically motionless and they spread out across the carpet to all corners of the room, fading back to the places the candlelight didn’t reach as he had no use for them. He didn’t even flinch when the door clicked shut. 

Putting down your bag, it was abandoned to simply be sorted tomorrow instead, and the two mugs were left on the countertop by the door. Kneeling down, your knees ached as you undid the laces on your boots, taking off your boots one-by-one and flexing your toes, wiggling them now that they were free. Placing them by the much larger pair sitting by the door, the image made you smile. You hang your jacket on the coat rack next to his, and padded near-silently across the room with one hot-ceramic mug in hand to get your robe. 

Azriel didn’t stir, not as you got undressed, or put on your robe, not even as you brushed the hair away from his forehead as you leaned over him. The curl fell back down over the rim of his glasses, and you chuckled at the untameable hair. Lifting them off of his face gently, he let out a particularly rough sigh, nose scrunching as you took the glasses away, folding them up and putting them on the bedside table, atop the book he was currently working his way through. 

No shirt, only a pair of black boxers as he’d obviously fallen asleep halfway through his evening plans. Golden skin mottled with pink scars and tattoos and the occasional hidden mole. He was like artwork, a pretty mess all for you. Bed-rumpled hair, pouty lips and candlelight flickering through the room and making every hard line and dip of his body seem emphasised. 

Gods, he was a work of art. 

He was your work of art. Your love, your mess, your man to take care of.

Next, you gathered up the papers scattered around him and his pens, clearing everything from the covers to the messy surface of his desk, and making a note to get him to tidy it up tomorrow before he got stressed. The curl was back, and you brushed it away, leaving a kiss on his forehead before it fell right back. He was so beautiful, but without those stress lines marring his pretty smile and his brows pulled tight together, he was ethereal. Taking a moment to appreciate it, you ran your finger along one cheekbone, and down the bridge of his nose.

“I love you.”

He huffed a little in his sleep, like his soul had heard yours. Pulling the covers up from the other side of the bed, your side, you cleared them away, before scooping your arms up underneath his body. With a grunt and a strain that ricocheted through your entire body, you rolled him over, all six-foot-five of Illyrian goodness until he was flopping onto his stomach, cheek pressed into the new pillow and he shuffled to pull it closer to his chest subconsciously. 

He was tense, you could tell from the still-tight tuck of his wings to his back, crumpled from how he’d fallen asleep, and the taut muscles along his body. With a hand settling along mole-speckled skin between his shoulder blades, you rubbed lightly in circles, pressure building as you lowered along his spine. Like magic, as they always did, his wings drooped dramatically, spreading out along the bed and filling the space, his entire body all but melting into the bed, a trick spot on his body that always released everything he was holding onto. 

Such a burst of love exploded within your chest that your throat felt tight and your eyes almost watered, and you rubbed at your chest, trying to contain the feeling within you lest it wake him up. It would be something he’d never let you live down if you woke him up being too in love with him. Your cheeks ached from the smile on your face, but you could live with that.

You were tempted to say screw it all, to crawl into bed beside him, tuck yourself under one of those wings, under one of his arms, to kiss at his jaw and cheeks until he woke up and tugged you close. You could feel the warmth of his body, the way his legs would tangle with your own and the bump of his heart against his chest that would match your own beat for beat. You trembled a little, arms wrapping around yourself as you took a deep breath. 

No. If you didn’t have a hot shower now, you’d be locked up and tense all week, and you hated that feeling. If you weren’t going to stretch it all out, you at least had to shower. Plus, you were pretty sure there was still mud in your hair and sweat coating your body. Taking your mug of tea with you after tucking the blankets up and around his body, you made your way to the bathroom. 

It was too bright, even with only one faelight lit, and you bit back a groan at the glare of pearly white tiles and marble countertops. Stripping off the robe and leaving it on the hook on the back of the half-closed door, you turned on the shower, leaving it to heat up as steam began pouring out. Another swig of tea, and you were untangling your hair from the right braids you wore to keep it contained and out of your face while you worked. 

The rest of the bathroom felt cold as steam swirled out, surrounding you in delicate twists the way shadows normally would, affectionate and sweet and loving. The warmth they offered was much like that of Azriel’s touch. The sooner you were showered and clean, the sooner you were curling up beside him in bed. 

That was the only motivation you had for stepping under the stream of water, eyes closing as you let the warmth pour over you, soaking you from head to toe and washing away the awful grime and dirt that felt like it had been building on your skin for years. It eased a sigh from you, your body finally slumping from the tight lines it held, your arms feeling heavy as they scrubbed at your hair, washed off your body, conditioned and cleaned until you felt brand-new once again. 

As your face tipped back up into the water, heat beating down onto you, arms snaked around your waist. You jumped a little, and Azriel, silent as always, plastered himself to your back as he climbed into the shower with you. Your hands fell to muscle-bound forearms which were sealed around your waist, squeezing lightly as he pressed a kiss to the side of your head. 

Turning in his tight hold, his crossed arms fell to sit in the small of your back instead, your cheek pressing to his chest, arms wrapping around him equally as tightly as water now poured down your back instead. You didn’t need to speak, to say anything, the calming feel of one calloused hand running up and down your back was more than enough. His own cheek came down to rest on the top of your head, chest inflating with a deep breath underneath you, brushing the top of your head as he exhaled. 

Shaking out his wings, water droplets bounced off of them, flying out and spattering across the tiles, the mirror, and the floor, before they were curling protectively around you, blocking out some of the harsh light you were squinting against. You stroked the bond within your chest appreciatively, and he nudged his nose against your temple in return. Never one for many words, but he always managed to make you feel like the centre of his world. 

You lingered a while longer, it could have been minutes or hours, you lost track of time while clinging to him, before he reached out to switch off the shower behind your body. Retracting one wing at a time, he pulled back, stepping out of the cubicle and running a fluffy towel over his body, before turning to face you. Reaching out, he cleaned down one leg at a time, drying you off as you balanced on his shoulders, before he was drying his way up. Fluffy cotton that made you dream of your bed, and he wrapped it around your shoulders, guiding you to the sink. 

He tugged his boxers back on, pulling wet strands of hair over your shoulders and squeezing them dry with the towel as you began to slowly apply skincare. He reached out, picking up your abandoned mug and sniffling at the contents, humming appreciatively and taking a swig. His eyes were closer to shut than open, much like your own, night hanging outside and tempting you both back into bed. Even the sky was dark tonight, clouds hanging overhead, as though even the stars were sleeping tonight. 

Tugging at the damp strands and separating them out, he combed through, and rubbed oils and products through your hair as he went, until they were smooth and clean and you had one less job to do. As soon as he had finished, he was leaning in, pressing a kiss to your neck, face burying into the crook as you leaned back into him. 

“Shall we go to bed now?”

“Mhm.” Muffled by a yawn you tried to cover, the words broke off into a sharp giggle as Azriel leaned down to scoop you up under your legs, one hand supporting your back as he carried you back to the bedroom. The lights went out automatically behind you, and only the golden glow of a candle almost burned out was left flickering to light you both up. He was smirking tiredly, and he nuzzled at your cheek, pressing a kiss there as he walked. 

You almost made it, your arms looped around his neck to play with the curls at the base of his neck, when he stumbled. Tripping over his own feet as his feet fluttered, the two of you tumbled down onto the bed, your body splaying out across it before he landed on top of you, only his wings bracing his fall, and your laughter was mixed together as you tangled in the sheets.

“So elegant, spymaster.” He only huffed at your teasing, dragging himself up weakly and resting his cheek against your chest, the weight of him pressing you into the bed, a weight you’d missed so terribly while you were away. 

“You’re home early.”

“What can I say, I missed you.” He smiled against your skin, pressing a kiss to the spot above your heart. 

“You should have told me, sent a message, or something. I’d have stayed up for you.”

“I didn’t want you to stay up, I want you to rest. Gods know you need it, sometimes.” If there was one single flaw Azriel had, it was that he tended to push himself to the limits whenever constantly, with no concern for his health. You’d known him to go days without real sleep before almost collapsing, and maybe he was working on it now, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still have rough patches. Your fingers dragged through his hair again. “I’m sorry I woke you, I tried to be quiet.”

“You were.” Another kiss to your collarbone, and he reached up until his face was resting within your neck. “I woke up because I felt you. I always know when you're near me, my love. I missed you, too.”

Your cheeks warmed, and it never ceased to amaze you how he could always make you feel like those first few months of your relationship, no matter how many years passed. “What were you working on?”

He jolted slightly, as though he’d fallen asleep again during that lull in the conversation, and he sniffled as he rose back to consciousness. Your hands moved from his hair, rubbing along his shoulders and his arms where they wrapped around you, a silent apology. “Hm?”

“I just asked what you were working on, that’s all.” Your whisper dropped even lower, your nails running lightly along his skin and he shuddered happily at the feeling, delicate scratches making goosebumps rise. A bloom of bliss unfurled in your chest, his hand coming up to rub over the exact spot, like he knew just where his feelings settled in your heart. 

“Oh.. just some of your mission reports, so you don’t have to do as much paperwork.” His shoulders moved in what you could only assume was a shrugging motion, diluted drowsily. “I did what I could, but you still have to do all the brief ‘n’ stuff.”

Your smile was beyond your control, hidden in his hair as you pressed your face into the top of his head, sighing happily at him. As you kissed his hair, he yawned. 

“Gods, I hate being away from you.” The words were carried on the happiest of tones, a kind of honey-sweet voice he only ever brought out in moments like these. Laced with tenderness and vulnerability and love, it was the kind of drug you’d become addicted to from the very first time. 

“I’m home now.”

Azriel hummed, nodding. “Now stay forever.”

“What about your missions, huh? When you go again?” Azriel’s head shook this time, or as best it could with his face in your neck, and one scarred hand came out to adjust your grip on him, guiding one hand back up to his hair not-so-subtly. You did as asked, fingers tangling in messy onyx locks, rubbing at his scalp once again. 

“No. No more missions. We’ll just live in this bed forever.”

“Yeah? What about food and drink?” These were the moods you loved with your mate, when the last of his walls came down, when the silly side of himself, the childish side he’d never been able to indulge in came out. Playful and loving and needy, it was your favourite part of his soul to have unlocked. 

“We have that half-drunk tea in the bathroom. We’ll survive.”

You could only smile, eyes rolling fondly, and silence took over once again. Dragging himself up, he lay down by your side instead now, legs tangling with yours, a wing settling across your body as his fingers found your hips, settling over the bare skin and sliding around to sit at the top of your ass. His large hands stretched out, covering your lower back too, tugging you closer until your chests were pressed together. 

You tilted your head enough to blow out the candle beside the bed, two of his fingers quickly turning your face back to him, and he leaned in, a soft kiss pressed to your lips. It was the final piece, slotting back to you as you came home, to him, to love, your lips working slowly together in a kiss that said it all. 

Welcome home.

I missed you. 

I love you.

A whole conversation without words as your hand sat on his cheek, as his wing settling over your body just the way you’d wanted it, and you snuggled into the feeling of him. He pulled back, and you chased closer, catching his lips once again, his sigh spanning across your skin as his face twisted. His tongue smoothed slowly over your lower lip, begging for access, pleading for more, and you let him. 

Slow, sweet, sensual. Every part of your body touched some part of him outside, as his very presence filled you from your heart, inside to out. He grunted, your hand smoothing down his chest, muscles tensing under your fingers, until you were both panting, pulling away for desperate drags of breath into your lungs. 

Your thumb swept over his lips, wiping away the kiss as he smiled, nudging back in until you were nose to nose. 

Silence filled the room as soon as darkness did, only his steady deep breaths and the occasional rustle of his wings when he twitched to break the all-encompassing quiet.

It was you who flinched this time, when he spoke; “D’you see Cass and Nesta on your way in?”

“I did.” You couldn't help it, leaning in to place another kiss on his lips, another, starving for his love as he chuckled, squeezing your hip in warning. You were both tired, you were both almost falling asleep, and if you kept it up, neither of you would see a wink before the sun was rising. The second squeeze was a promise, a promise as his hand smoothed up your waist, thumb running under your bare breast without going further, a promise that tomorrow night you’d get everything and more. “They were playing cards.”

Your throat was raspy and cracked, and it only helped that his was equally affected - deep and rumbly - and he replied. “They’re practising for game night next week.”

“We’re still gonna’ kick their asses.”

“‘Course we are, love. We’re unstoppable.”

[jjlevin]

I love this relaxed domestic big love stuff

[bluetimeombre]

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ And I wouldn't marry me, either.

You were Azriel's mate, but it took losing you three times for him to realise.

[this is long. i'm talking 5k words long so i've split it into two parts. anyway, azriel is the best bat boy and no i won't hear anyone out. i'm so excited to write for him and hope you enjoy. it's very angsty but that's what i love. i hope i can write more for him and maybe other characters if you like. it's been a while since i've actually read the series so if any information is wrong, do let me know. also it was my first time using the term y/n and yes, i cringed NOT PROOF READ... enjoy]

warnings: references to sexual assault and references to suicide. nothing explicit but please don't read if this is sensitive to you.

Part 2 soon…

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The first, was the worst...

You were Rhys's half sister, the bastard daughter of his father. But when your mother had died giving birth to you, Rhysand's mother took you in and raised you with your brother and sister. You were so little and adorable that your sister loved you at once. Rhys did to, at some point of your life, you were sure he actually cared about you.

But when his mother and sister had died, his eyes shifted, he started to look at you with contempt. After all, you were only his half-sister. The worst half. He only kept you around because it's what his mother would have wanted.

And because there was no way Cassian and Azriel would ever let anything happen to you.

Besides, Rhysand knew when to use you.

Although Azriel was his spymaster, you were pretty good at staying swift-footed too. And you were frankly, very terrifying when you wanted to be.

You tread with power through the war camps, all of them looking at you as you went. All of their gazes wrecked with a predatory gaze. They either wanted to have their way with you, or kill you. Or both.

Rhys had said you could handle it, it was only supposed to be a check in. Cassian hadn't liked it, neither had Mor but it was Azriel who had almost- and for the first time- disobeyed his high lord to accompany you. But no, your brother wanted you to do this alone, so alone you would.

Just to show him you could.

'I can come with you,' Azriel had said, standing in your room as you tied your boots up. 'I won't even have to be seen.' At that, his shadows wrapped up your calf.

You smiled at them, as if they were his own pet. 'I'll manage just fine. Besides, i'm sure that's what Rhys wants, me needing a man.'

It had done nothing to calm your friend. The worry was still stuck between his brows, marring his handsome features. You'd held his cheeks, your wings hiding the two of you. His large ones (enough to swallow the both of you) over-lapped yours.

It was the last time you'd feel your wings.

The war camp wasn't as easy as you'd hoped. It was terror and horror in a place. You'd been to the court of nightmares, you'd gone to the slaughter of the spring court after they killed your family. But this, this was hell of another kind.

You had no idea how many days you'd been locked up, wrists bound in chains and hanging from the cell roof above you. Blood rolled down your arms from the force you'd tried to use to get them out. Your eye was swollen shut and your body trembled in pain.

All because they wanted to know your brothers secrets, and you wouldn't budge.

Your check was only supposed to be a day, but you were sure it had been longer. Days of endless pain and torture. Your uniform hung in rags of stripped material, your hair matted with blood and hiding your face.

You'd used the last of your energy to keep your walls up. You weren't anyone's mate, you didn't have anyone on the other end trying to feel what you felt. But should Rhys come looking (though you doubted it) you didn't want him to feel it. You didn't want anyone in your mind.

The gates opened with a sickening clash.

One of the Illyrian's knelt in front of you, his wings hiding those coming in behind you. 'Listen sweetheart. I don't want to make this any harder than it's about to get. All you have to do is tell us your brother's hide outs.'

You grit your teeth, staring down at the ground.

'So loyal, to a man who doesn't care if you live or die.'

Suddenly, your wings twitched as hands grasped them. Brute hands, the sort you wouldn't want touching any part of you.

Fear spiked in you, horror twisting your gut. 'What are you doing?'

'I told you I didn't want to get things messier, darling.'

You whipped your head from side to side, trying and failing to get a look at the assailants behind you. Your wings were being held apart, no matter how hard you tried to bat them away. You knew the sort of people they were, and what they did to girls like you.

That's when the begging started. 'No, no please. Anything. I'll do anything! Beat me, kill me, rape me, not my wings, please!'

'Anything?' the bastard asked, tongue poking out from his lips. 'Then tell me where your lord's hideouts are?'

You should betray him, you thought. He would never lose his wings for you. Perhaps it was stubbornness that kept you from, or maybe you were clinging to the last bit of love you want from him.

The bastard scoffed, 'anything, she says. Your brother has his own bitch wrapped around his finger.'

That's when they started hacking at your wings.

Your screams tore through your throat, blood spitting and dripping down your chin. Tears soon joined when they hacked away at the bone, the membrane, the flesh of it all. The three of them worked through your screams and your tears and your pain, tearing and cutting at it like it was nothing more than paper.

Not your whole life.

Let them hear you. You hoped your brother heard you, you hoped all and every court heard the pain.

Eventually, even you couldn't keep screaming. The only sound was the hacking away at your wings and the drops of blood.

'Now look at these beauties. I've got a perfect spot on my wall for these.'

They left you after that. There wasn't much more damage they could do. It already felt like they'd destroyed your life. You had never really thought about your wings, they were just part of you, as much as your wit or hair was. But they'd took it and now, you felt empty. Never would you fly with Azriel again, or use your wings to smack Cassian over the head.

Rhys, your dear brother, had took that from you.

The days blended in together after that. You were pooled in your own tears and blood, vomiting up anything they forced down your throat. No, they'd made it very clear they didn't want you dead. They just took pride in making it feel like you were.

At some point, you'd stopped reacting to the gate opening. You let them do whatever they wanted with you. Your wrists were still chained, arms still hanging up, your clothes hanging on your thin body in strips of dirt.

'No...' you heard a mumble. 'What have they done to you?'

Suddenly, the chains gave way and you lurched forward, with no strength to catch you. Luckily, you didn't have to, as strong and warm arms pulled you into his chest.

'Hey, wake up, look at me, dammit.'

Azriel.

You'd know the voice in the darkest days, in the pit of your worst nightmare you'd know.

You try to speak but your head's heavy, your lips are stone and your arms can't lift to hold onto him. You're exhausted, you're dying. The only thing you could do use all your strength to try to open your eyes.

'Please, please, look at me. You have to look at me,'

You were trying, you wanted to tell hm, snap at him, but you couldn't.

You felt Azriel shake, or maybe you were. Then, there was wet drops landing on your cheeks- you flinched.

'I'm sorry, i'm sorry. Rhys! Rhys! hurry up, please!' he was screaming. You'd never heard him scream before.

You heard the rush of feet at the cell doors, you knew it was your brother. You knew it from the presence of him, from the shuffling of feet and chocked sob. Your brother didn't cry, least of all for you.

'Her wings, oh mother, her wings,' said Azriel, his voice barley above that of a whisper.

Your wings. You didn't need reminding. They were gone, long and far gone. You were without a part of you, the very part of your soul that loved to be free. Never would you watch the stars up close or fly over everyone. Never race Cassian or make jokes with Az.

No, this would destroy you.

'y/n,' your half-brother called. 'No, y/n. Can you hear me?'

Your lips parted, mumbling. 'Hurts.'

Azriel's grip on you tightened. 'I know, we're gonna get you out of here, just hold on for me.'

You wanted to tell him you would hold on, you'd always need to hold on to him. That, no matter what he asks, you'd do it. To kill, to live, to breathe, to die.

And that's when it clicked. Amongst all the pain and the doubt. In your blood soaked clothes. In the fear you wouldn't make it, there was a tug. Weak and one-sided, but there. You knew you'd be safe with Azriel, knew you would always be with him.

Mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The pain subsided to a dull ache, there and beating but not excruciating. You were warm and covered in a soft material. Nothing like the cell you'd been kept in. Your fingertips sunk into something soft- a bed. Your bed. It was familiar in its lavender scent to you and the silk wrapped around you gave you some semblance of warmth.

Your wings.

Even coming to consciousness was difficult. You were exhausted but light, without the weight of wings holding you down. You'd never realised how much you needed to feel that weight, to feel pulled down in order to be free.

Gone, all gone.

Your hand twitches around something cold, a shadow holding your hand, creeping up your side.

'You're awake, thank the couldron.'

It wasn't Azriel, master of the shadows. It wasn't your mate. Mate. The word replayed like a terrible song in your mind.

How dare the mother do this to Az. How dare he- nothing but loyal and kind- get stuck with a person made in darkness, who bled shadows, who's heart was so full of hate there wasn't room for love. They'd cursed Az, with you.

But luckily it wasn't him, it was Rhysand.

'It really happened,' you whispered, voice hurting from the screams.

He sighed. 'I'm sorry, i'm so sorry. We-we thought you weren't going to make it, you'd lost so much blood.'

In spite of the pain in your shoulders, you made a shift, turning from him as he ranted on about your condition.

'y/n... sister, please,' he said. He'd never called you sister before. He'd always been content to treat you just like you worked for him.

'Leave me alone.' you couldn't bare to look at him, couldn't bare to face him. The shadows at your hand grew heavier, as if more were piling on. You stretched your fingers away from them, trying to get them off you.

'Are you in any pain?' asked Rhys.

'Get out,' you mumbled.

The end of your bed dipped where Rhys settled, hand splayed on the covers, begging for your hand. 'y/n.'

'Get out!' you snapped, body tense and straining. You felt your wounds open up, blood wetting the bandage around you. But you didn't care. You'd happily bleed if you couldn't fly. A part of you, sick part of you wanted to be left there. It would be better than false sympathy.

Be better than your mate being disgusted.

'Get out!' you yelled again, voice tearing through an aching throat.

'I just want to help you! please, let me help you!' said Rhys, standing from your bed and walking around, trying to face you.

'I don't want your help!' you screamed. You reached for the closest thing you could, a jug of water and chucked it toward him. You aim was terrible, marred with pain and exhaustion. 'Get out!'

Though hesitant, Rhysand slowly started walking back to your door. He did it all looking at you, his hands out to show he wasn't gonna hurt you, but you didn't care. You went for the glasses next and chucked them but they landed against the door which he disappeared through.

Before it slid close you caught sight of Cassian , Mor and Azriel. All crowded, all waiting to see you.

You'd be happy if you never let them see you again.

'Can we see her?' you hear Mor ask.

'Give her time,' said Rhys.

The shadows at your hand grew heavier, darker, tighter.

'Go away!' you yelled at them. To anyone else, you probably looked crazy, screaming to darkness. But the shadows understood. They departed, slithering away and under the crack of your door where you could see the shadows of feet.

Tumbling from bed, you stumbled over and locked the door, leaning on it to and catching your breath. Your nightgown was starting to get sticky with blood all over again. When you closed your eyes, you pictured the cell, the rough hands holding you down, the chain keeping you up.

And the pain, it all washed over you. The hacking at your back, the sting of a slap. It hit you like a tone of bricks as you slid to the floor.

There was a knock, rattling the door.

'y/n,' Cassian. 'Please let us in.'

Us. You felt him on the other side. Your mate, his presence lingering. His shadows under the door, wanting to come in but keeping their distance.

He didn't know. It hadn't snapped for him, you could tell. It was one tug on your end, a chord in your heart. At least he couldn't feel what you did. At least you could shoulder it alone.

'Please.' his voice was almost your un-doing. He sounded so sad, so desperate. It hurt you just to think you were hurting him.

Tears streamed down your face as your curled your fingers into a tight fist. You assumed Mor had left with Rhys, leaving you there with the males.

Cass was always like a brother to you. Granted- a brother you had slept with once or twice- but he was your best friend. You'd always been close to him. But you'd always been good, a happy person.

You couldn't be that for them now, perhaps ever again.

It lasted like that for hours. Cassian and Az begging to come in, you curling into a ball with tears down your cheeks and blood down your back.

Eventually, they gave up. You couldn't hear them anymore and the shadows of their boots had disappeared.

Except Azriel's shadows that still lingered under your door. Maybe he'd ordered them to be there while they left you.

Eventually, you managed to find your footing on shaking legs. Your room was large, one of the largest. It was just as much a mess as it was when you'd left for you mission, clothes thrown over the place, books propped open on the pages you'd left them on. Everything was the same but could never be again.

It took you longer than you'd care to admit to get to your windows and throw the curtains close. Candles light at your request, the house looking after you as it had since you were a child.

You caught sight of yourself in the full length mirror. It seemed smaller, everything in the room felt too large and you too small, as if you were being swallowed by the expanse of it.

Your frame was small in the mirror, your hair disarrayed. Your eyes were red and shutting of their own accord from the tears that had drained you. The starving in the cells had made you look weak, made you feel weak.

And your back. There was no more looming black figures there, no more fluttering. There was just nothing. In spite of the ache as you lifted your arm, you felt around your back, feeling the hitch there, the lump from where they'd been torn from you.

You cry. You sob. You scream.

The scars were long and the nightdress was sticking to you by the blood you'd shed. All you could do, was hold yourself up as your body wracked with tears.

A breeze came from your windows, shadows tugging at the curtains.

You felt him before you saw him. You wanted to tell him to leave you but you couldn't talk without chocking. Without feeling like you couldn't breath.

Azriel had you in your arms before your knees could hit the ground. He fell with you, softening your body on the floor. His arms held you into his chest, his legs caging you into his body. His head rested on yours as he held you. He didn't try to talk, he didn't try to help. It was just him, you and his shadows.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Azriel remembered dozing off with you, his head on yours. His arms holding you into him, as if it was up to him to keep the sadness away and take it for you.

Afterall, you were his best friend. He should have been there for you, and he'd failed terribly by letting you get hurt and your wings stolen from you. He could hate himself every day for it, for letting you down. But it would never amount to what you felt for yourself and that killed him.

He could see it in the way you cried, in the way you were already keeping everyone out. He'd rather die than let you go through all the pain alone.

When his hands had been scarred by his brothers, you'd help heal him, tell him about everything he still was and all the power he still held in his hands. In the worst days, when he didn't let anyone touch him, he let you.

It was always you.

Azriel wasn't sure how long he'd been asleep, or how deep. He was sure he was still with you, still in your bed.

His shadows crept up on him, engulfing him slowly and whispering to him. Your name, just your name on repeat. It was enough to lull him back into sleep, to keep him calm.

Gone. Missing. y'n. Roof.

He shot up and ran fastest than he ever had in his life. It was as if he'd never been asleep but had been fighting a battle with the way he raced over.

He burst through the doors, the cold hight air hitting him.

You stood facing the stars, your bloody back to him. It wasn't as much blood as when he'd found you, but it was still enough to put a lump in his throat.

Immediately his shadows fell to you, cascading down your body and wrapping around your waist. There was a breeze in the air, pushing your hair back and exposing more signs of the pain and torture you must have gone through.

'I'm not gonna jump, if that's what you're thinking,' you said. You didn't even have to turn to him. The shadows probably told you enough.

'Why are you up here?' he asked, walking to you slowly and with careful steps. As if every step closer could you push you away from him.

'I'll never feel the win properly again,' you answered.

Azriel gulped down his own pain. You’d never sounded so small. ‘Can you get away from the ledge?’

'I'm not on the ledge.'

'You're too close for my liking.'

'Leave if you don't like it.'

'Don't do this,' he said.

'Do what?' you asked, folding your arms over your chest. You were cold, out in the hight but you wanted to see the stars. Needed to see them.

'Make me leave. Make everyone leave you. I know that's what you're doing. It's what you do every time,' you could feel him dawning closer. His shadows were all around you, almost drowning you.

‘Every time,’ you scoff, stepping down and turning on him. ‘It’s not every day you lose your wings Azriel! But don’t let me stop you from leaving, flap them and go!’ You yelled, unable to stop yourself, no matter how hard you tried. You didn’t want to hurt him, you just wanted to be alone.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

'You jump and I’ll catch you,' he said. He was a step away, he could just reach out and touch, just a gentle caress. 'I swear it, whatever you do, I’ll follow. I’m not letting you get away.’

He watched your back shudder as he reached out, brushing knuckles against your shoulder blade. He heard your sharp inhale follow.

'Don’t think I won’t follow, y/n.'

Finally, you turned around in his shadows. You couldn’t meet his eyes but at least you could face his chest.

His hands were gentle on your shoulder as he rubbed it gently. 'Can I get Madja to clean you up?' He asked.

You nodded as he led you away. You truly did not deserve your mate.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Fifty-two years later...

When Amarantha had trapped the high lords of Prythian under the mountain, it hadn't be a conscious choice to follow your half-brother down. How Amarantha had allowed it, you weren't sure, but perhaps she wanted to use you just like her brother, or she thought it would bring more pain for him to see you suffer under there too.

You and Rhysand had barley spoke the last two years.

It had took you almost two months to heal fully enough to leave your room, another few months to face your family again. But even then, everyone knew something had changed in you. You didn't laugh as loud or smile as wide.

Rhysand was careful to ever let you out on a mission. Mor tried to take you out every night. Cassian spent all day every day with you and Azriel- he'd healed you better than any nurse.

Still, you had not told him he was your mate.

Still, you thought he wouldn't want it.

Still, you cared for your brother enough to not want him to go alone.

But being under the mountain, you could avoid your mate. At a painful price.

Until her. Rhys's mate. He hadn't shut up about her since he first met her, much to your dismay as you had to sit around and listen- having absolutely nothing better to do. And it only got worse when she turned up under the mountain. She was declaring her love for Tamlin- again, annoying your brother, and throwing Lucien into danger- which rather angered you. You had nothing against the ginger.

Rhysand had once sent you to find the girl to summon her as part of a bargain he'd made. He didn't want to go, he didn't want to look too forceful. You'd been lucky enough to find the two tangled up in each other against a cold wall, clothes ripped and hips moving together.

'Well, well well,' you'd intterupted.

Tamlin all but growled at you, but feyre was looking over you- evidently confused. She had no idea who you were. You, in your skimpy outfit that Amarantha kept you in (they all dipped low at your back, showing off your scars) and your eyes that were like a night sky.

'Amarantha's looking for her pet and Rhysand is looking for his. Honestly, i'd be a bit more worried if I were you. You know, considering Lucien still has an eye to lose.'

The two parted with your words as you sent Tamlin back to his master, the high lord glaring at you as you went. While Feyre tried to fix herself.

'Rhysand is over there, better not keep him waiting.' That was the first time you met her, having no idea how much trouble she'd be worth. The family that she'd become.

But Rhysand made sure you knew it all. From when the bond snapped in him and he'd stumbled. He ranted and ranted as they climbed out.

If only you were so talkative about Azriel. If only you could talk about him with your brother. But you'd tried not to painfully think about him. Climbing out of the mountain. It was all you could think of.

Maybe he'd have forgotten you? it had been fifty years. He'd probably realised how happy he could be without having to take care of you.

Rhys was allowed out of the mountain, he'd felt the breeze in his hair but you hadn't in fifty long years. You stood there a moment, bathing in the warmth as everyone left, as everyone ran off for their families and courts and the war that was inevitable. Eventually, Rhys offered you his arm. 'Shall we go home?'

He winnowed you there, on the balcony of your home. In a cloud of black smoke, the two of you appeared.

He went first, slipping through the doors slowly- like it could all be taken from them any minute.

You were hesitant, taking a moment to glance at the landscape behind you. It hadn't changed, not at all. The mountains were still there, everyone was still alive. Your home. In the last years it hadn't felt like home, but how could anywhere ever feel so close in your heart.

When you could find your feat again, you managed to slip through the doors. You were suddenly aware of how little clothing you were wearing, just enough to cover your chest and run down your legs. A chill settled down your back, your scars would be on show. What a way to great them all after fifty years.

Mor had her arms around Rhys's shoulders, crying into his shoulder.

Behind them you caught Amren, with something like tears in her eyes. You were just about to tease her before a body barrelled into yours in a blur of red syphons and your feet were lifted from the ground.

'Cassian.'

His arms tightened around you. You shoulder started to dampen with tears, his tears. The last time you'd seen him cry around you was when he'd seen a dog with only three legs. 'I'm keeping you on a leash from now on, stupid idiot.'

Your arms wrap around his shoulders, a smile gracing your lips. 'Is that a promise?'

He held you longer, tighter, not daring to let you go but at least settling you on the ground. He sighed against your head, controlling himself. 'He's missed you, you know,' he said. He was the only one you'd told, about your mate. 'Now that you're back, tell him. He deserves to know.'

Cassian slowly pulled away, holding you at arms length and smiling at you. He kissed your cheeks and then your forehead before parting to Rhysand.

Mor approached you next, slapping you in the arm.

'Ow!'

'Why would you follow him?' she snapped.

You blinked at her before she took you by the arm she'd slapped and embraced you, like a sister would. You dared not looking over her shoulder to find the one who hadn't come to you. Maybe Cass had got it wrong...

Mor pulled away, wiping at her eyes.

Azriel was as beautiful as the day you left him. His hair was the same length, he was the same height. He was just as you left him. It was hard to tell fifty years had passed on him.

And inside of you, tugging in your soul and heart you felt the familiar string of gold throbbing. But you still didn't feel that tug. You'd hoped it would have faded from you after half a year separated. Or at least have snapped for him. But no such relief.

He approached you, slowly. As if he was scared of scaring you away. But you just stood there.

His arms were delicate and soft around you as he brought you into his chest. He still smelled the same, cedar wood and shadows. Shadows that wrapped around you, shielding you from the rest of the room. They caressed you, head to two.

You held onto each other for what could have been another fifty years, but this time, it wasn't so painful.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Although nobody wanted to part after yours and Rhysand's return, you were exhausted. A trip to Rita's could wait another night or two. The only thing you wanted to do was hide in your room.

Strangely, your room looked lived in. As if somebody had moved in since you'd left. A moment of anger replaced grief. Had they brought someone else and given them your room? but then you smelt it, Az.

Lying in bed that night, exhausted, you couldn't find sleep. You closed your eyes and pictured Amarantha. You'd never been afraid of her, you weren't afraid of anything. But you re-played the horrors. Watching servants beat Feyre, watching Amarantha use your brother and on the occasion, even you. How she flaunted. How the most powerful lords were weak.

Under your door, shadows seeped in, rushing across the room to you. You smiled, watching your hand disappear in their darkness.

'Azriel?' you called.

There was shifting on the other side of the door before he slipped in, clicking it shut behind him.

You sat up in bed, shadows moving with you. 'Couldn't sleep?'

He wondered in, looking around your room. 'Sleeping's been... hard.'

You rolled over, opening the blanket and nodding your head. You couldn't think about the bond, not yet. Not while he looked so.... ruined. Beautiful- the most beautiful person in the world, but sad. As he climbed in next to you, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders slumped and his wings too.

His eyes scanned over you. You were in a thin and silk night dress that only brushed your knees, but the way he looked at you, mother you could've been naked. 'Fifty years,' his voice sounded barley controlled. 'Fifty years. You followed your brother down for fifty years? Why would you do that?'

You gulp. 'I would've done it for any of you. Except maybe Amren, she'd probably enjoy the peace for fifty years.'

You go to brush your hair back but Azriel seizes your wrist. He was angry. That's why his voice was rough and his chest rising and falling with barley controlled emotions. Could he feel it? your nerves, your lying?

'You left. You should've stayed, y/n, you know Rhysand didn't want you under there with him,' he said. 'For fifty years I haven't been able to sleep through a night thinking about the pain you must have been going through. After I swore to keep you safe, after I promised to catch you every time!'

'You couldn't have stopped me. You didn't promise, Az.'

His grip grew tighter. 'It went without saying.'

You looked around his eyes, seeing the pain and grief there also. Slowly, you brought your other hand up. He flinched as you took his cheek but eventually settled as your thumb ran over his cheekbone. 'I won't leave again, ok? I promise.'

He gulped, letting go of your wrist and looking down. 'I slept here,' he mumbled, but just loud enough to hear you. 'I couldn't sleep in my room. This was the only place I could rest.'

Your heart stuttered. Your hand dropped from his cheek. This man was your mate. Your mate. Your only love, whether or not the cauldron deemed it.

Azriel took your hesitation. 'I-i'm sorry, you probably didn't want to hear that. I've probably ruined your one place of peace-'

'Stay,' you said, before you could think of what you were asking. 'Sleeping wasn't exactly easy under the mountain either. I just trust I won't have to put a wall of cushions between us.' as if you wanted that. As if you haven't thought about his calloused hands all over you.

Azriel smiled and stayed the night.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

The third time he almost lost you, broke him...

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

[jjlevin]

I love this, I hate you, I want to kiss you, I’m reading part 2 RIGHT NOW!!!

[lucyrose191]

NOBODY ELSE | A Z R I E L

Pairing: Azriel x Rhysand!sister!reader

Summary: It would only ever be you, no matter how much time had passed.

Warnings: fluff, angst, reader described to have the same eyes as Rhys.

A C O T A R M A S T E R L I S T

There had been many times over the course of being chained within the depths of this cave in which you had thought yourself to have officially gone insane but the moment you felt as though the shadows in the corners of this prison began moving was when you had accepted that insanity had taken over you but the moment you began hearing them whispering to you was truly the loss of all hope.

You had long since lost count of time, with nothing but darkness surrounding you and no hope for any light to work its way into this godforsaken pit, days were passing by without your knowledge. It had been years at this point, how many, you didn’t know but long enough for the world outside to be a distant echo and for your presence to have faded into a pitiful whisper.

Years passed by with only the reminders of your old life to keep you company; you often dreamed of those times your brother carved out time in his day to braid your hair or when you would both jump out of the windows late at night to fly over Velaris together. You’d dream of your mother, how she’d let you sit and ‘help’ her make dresses or that time you were so outraged when you were learning how to fly and she pushed you straight from the balcony of the House of Wind so that you had no choice but to fly.

Your days were filled with flashes of them all; your mother, Rhysand, Mor and Cassian.

You wondered how much of life had moved on without you.

Was Rhysand High Lord yet?

If he was, how had your father died?

Had Rhysand found his mate?

Had he made her High Lady like you both always spoke about?

In those extra difficult times that your control slipped even further, those memories of the Shadowsinger would linger the harshest.

You did not like thinking of how much his life had moved on without you.

Rhysand and Feyre stood together in the kitchen of the townhouse, looking through the window into the garden where Elain was tending to the flower garden and Azriel was sprawled out nearby, sunning his wings.

“Do you think the Cauldron can make mistakes with mates?” Feyre asked him, a look of confused anguish on her face.

Rhysand looked towards his mate, surprise dancing in his eyes at her question. “Nobody truly knows what makes the cauldron put two people together. They’re not always perfectly compatible, my own parents were examples of that, they never truly loved each other. Others, like us, are lucky to find love with their mate.”

Feyre continued looking out into the garden. “Why couldn’t the cauldron have made Azriel, Elain’s mate, instead of Lucien. Lucien is good but they look good together,” Feyre pointed out to where the Shadowsinger was still sprawled on the grass.

A pulse of pain pulled through their bond causing Feyre to snap her eyes back to Rhys. She was surprised to see the pain in his eyes, it wasn’t just any pain. It was the sort of pain that lingered and dwelled, a grief that would forever remain no matter how much time passed but there was also a subtle protectiveness in his eyes that could almost be missed.

Feyre was confused.

Rhysand swallowed a lump in his throat before speaking. “Do not mistake Azriel’s kindness towards your sister as affection. He is spending time with her because I ordered him too, to try and understand her powers. You’re reading into something that isn’t there.” His voice was stern but not unkind.

Feyre’s brows furrowed at his words. “It would be an honour for Azriel to find his mate, with anyone.”

“Azriel does not want a mate, Feyre.” The sheer confidence in Rhysand’s words only confused her even more.

“But why would he not want a mate? I thought everyone dreams of having one.” She questioned, looking out at Azriel’s figure in the garden.

She thought Azriel of all people would want a mate.

“Azriel has already had his great love,” Rhysand said. “No mating bond could ever live up to that for him. There are loves that even the cauldron cannot compete with.”

“What?” Feyre asked, shock taking over her face. “Who?”

That pain appeared in Rhys’ eyes again, a quick flash but it was there. “I meant it when I said I have no secrets to keep from you but not all stories are solely mine to tell. I am not going to tell you Azriel’s secrets.”

Feyre nodded silently. She understood, it didn’t diminish her curiosity but she would not pry for answers that weren’t hers to have.

Azriel’s footsteps were silent as always, shadows licking at his heals and fingertips as he walked towards Rhys’ office.

Not bothering to knock, his gloved hand unlatched the handle as he stepped inside. “You called, brother?”

Rhys was sat back in his chair, unsurprisingly dressed in his formals but the conflicted look on his face ruffled his demeanour. “I’d like to preface by saying you haven’t done anything wrong, my mate simply is too nosey for her own good and sees things she hopes are there rather than reality at times.”

Azriel’s face remained at an impasse other than the slight narrowing of his golden, hazel eyes.

Rhysand sighed. “Feyre is under the impression that you and Elain may make for a better match than her and Lucien.”

The control Azriel had on himself immediately slipped as he stepped back, eyes widening in shock, fists clenching by his sides as his shadows fluttered around him. “No. Rhys, I would never-”

“I know” Rhys interrupted. “I am not accusing you of doing anything, Az. I just thought it best to let you know.”

Azriel shifted uncomfortably at his words. “You know there is no one else, there never has been and there will never be anyone else.” He insisted, wanting his brother to believe him.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “I know. I have never doubted that even though it would be okay if eventually-”

“No!” Azriel’s cut him off, “There will never be another.”

“Okay,” Rhys conceded. “I just wanted to let you know, Azriel.”

Azriel nodded his head, not hesitating in taking his exit, leaving Rhys there in a suffocating silence of loss.

“You’re distracted,” Cassian dropped his stance, looking towards Feyre intently.

His High Lady sighed in frustration, leaning back against the ropes of the sparring ring.

“What’s on your mind?” He asked.

Feyre pursed her lips in contemplation before relenting. “Did you three actually used do things in the same room as each other?”

Cassian barked out a deep laugh at her question. “That’s what’s on your mind?”

Feyre shrugged sheepishly.

Cassian shook his head, a large smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, Rhys and I did. It would be a bit weird and incredibly uncomfortable for us all if Azriel did.”

Feyre tilted her head curiously, “Why?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be very nice for Rhys to see his best friend having his way with the girl he loves more than anything, would it?” He said, as though it was obvious. “Besides, Azriel has way too much respect for him to do that anyways.”

Feyre’s eyes widened in shock but there was also a sickening feeling of jealously bubbling in her stomach. “So, Azriel and Rhys loved the same girl?”

Cassian, way too focused now on stretching to acknowledge how his words had been interpreted. “We all love her but those two always have and always will love her most. She’s their number one girl.”

Number one girl.

Feyre did not like the sound of that at all. She hated it and she hated herself even more because of the jealously that gnawed at her. “They didn’t hate each other for that?” She questioned.

Cassian shook his head, mid lunge. “Azriel had no reason to hate Rhys. It was difficult for Rhys to accept in the beginning and Azriel understood that but Rhys saw how much love was there, it was impossible to miss so who was he to stand in the way of that?”

Feyre stood in thought for a moment. “So, Rhys loved her first?”

Cassian laughed. “Of course he did. It’s not really a competition though, is it?”

She didn’t answer him, she simply stood there, thoughts swirling.

Feyre hated herself, she hated that she could not stop thinking about this girl who must have been something really special for both Rhys and Azriel to both love.

She’s their number one girl.

No matter how hard she had tried to not think about it, she couldn’t help it.

“What’s on your mind, Feyre darling?” Rhys’ smooth voice slipped through the silence of their bedroom.

She looked up at him from her place at the edge of their bed. “It’s nothing,” she stated simply.

Rhys frowned at her dismissal, placing his watch on his bedside table before walking to stand in front of her. He pressed a palm to the side of her face. “Tell me what’s on your mind?”

She sighed, mostly in frustration at herself, partially in his insistence to talk about it. “Where you in love with Azriel’s mate?”

The utter bewilderment that appeared on Rhys’ face made her immediately regret her words and watch to shrink back in on herself. “What!?”

Feyre shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she tried to pull away but Rhys kept his hand on the side of her face, steadying her.

“Azriel doesn’t have a mate,” he told her, utter confusion lacing his words.

Feyre shrugged, “Were you in love with the same girl then?”

“I’m so confused, no?” Rhys said, having absolutely no idea where she could’ve gotten this from. “Where have you gotten this from?”

Feyre looked at him, frustration beginning to build within her. “I asked Cassian about how you used to do things in the same room, he said you and him did but not Azriel because it wouldn’t be nice for him to be pleasuring a girl that you loved! He said she was yours and Azriel’s number one girl.”

Rhys pulled his hand from her face and placed it over his mouth. The confusion in his eyes had faded into a an amusing sparkle as his shoulders began shaking with suppressed laughter.

“What!?” Feyre huffed. “What are you laughing at!?”

Rhysand released a full deep chuckle at her frustrations. “Cassian is an idiot and you are utterly beautiful when you’re jealous.”

“I am not jealous!” She argued.

Rhys simply raised an eyebrow at her, completely unconvinced. “You’ve completely misinterpreted Cassian’s words, Feyre darling. It is still not my story to tell but I can promise you that Azriel and I have never been in love with the same girl.”

It had been five centuries since the disappearance of you and your mother and Azriel had never been the same.

Long before he met you, Azriel had learned what it meant to live in loneliness with nothing but his shadows for company but loneliness in response to your absence was never quite something anyone could become familiar with.

It was an endless void of nothing. Normally the thread of silence would at least end somewhere; a place where you simply got used to the feeling of someone not being there; but not with you.

It had been five centuries since your last laugh and that entire time Azriel has spent sleeping in your room. The room that sat right next to his own where your beds were pushed against the shared wall so even in your own beds you would be sleeping as close as you could get to each other.

It remained exactly how you left it, the same books sat on the nightstands, the same jewellery littered across a dressing table and a beautiful dress of deep blue with glittering silver stars on the bodice hung from the door of the closet, preparing to be worn for a day that never came.

Each morning that Azriel woke and got ready for the day, his last words to the House of Wind always remained the same. Leave it exactly how she left it, please.

The House always listened.

Whilst Azriel no longer slept in his own room, it had changed. The walls that were once a basic white had been transformed into a purple so unique it could only reflect the colour of your eyes.

In those rare moments that Azriel was able to relax away from the world, he would lay in his bed and stare at the walls of his room and whilst they could never reflect the light in a sparkle the way your own eyes could, the paint would simply have to do.

The winter chill of the Illyrian Steppes bit harshly into your cheeks as you ran through the thick snow into the forests surrounding the Windhaven camp.

The males were awful here, brutal even but even they knew to leave the daughter of the High Lord alone and so you were free to wander without the risk of your wings being torn from your back.

The trees created sanctuary for you here, as you weaved in between them you thought of your brother, Rhys and how quickly he would lose his mind once he found you gone.

A deep rooted feeling of being watched suddenly stirred in your stomach causing you to pause. It was the most subtle weight you had ever felt and yet you could not help but feel it as it settled into your bones.

You cast a quick glance up into the branches of the trees above you, where their leaves and twigs clashed and combined with one another, it took a moment for you to spot them but eventually you did.

Within a particular tall tree that was shaped in all groves and turns towards the top, deep within the shadows is where you saw him.

A male.

Sitting, observing.

“Hello,” you greeted softly.

No answer.

“What are you doing up there?” You asked.

The shadows fluttered and twitched at first before melting away into a black mist behind the males shoulders, revealing his face.

“Oh,” you whispered, taking in the hard expression of his face. He had hair of a dark midnight sky, eyebrows just a shade lighter that were furrowed deeply, shadowing his eyes that, against his dark features, seemed to glow golden when they narrowed towards you. He was all sharp lines and tensed muscles.

He shifted slightly in his place against the branches of the tree before stepping forward and allowing himself to gracefully drop down in front of you, merely inches away as he stared down into your eyes.

“How did you see me?” He asked, his voice was rough and deep for his age, possibly a couple years older than you, but his tone was steady.

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “I felt your eyes on me.”

It was then that you took notice of just how tightly his wings were pulled in at his back, a complete contrast to yours that were much more relaxed; pulled in just enough to protect them but let out enough that you didn’t have to consciously hold them in all the time, “you’ll get back pain holding them in like that,” you told him, pointing briefly at his wings.

They twitched in response, shadows fluttering wildly around the tips of his wings. It wasn’t a purposeful movement, that you could tell.

“I can’t control them,” He admitted to you.

Your brows furrowed, “what do you mean?”

“I cannot fly,” he said. “I never learned how to control them.”

You stepped back at his words. “You can’t fly!?” You spluttered in outrage. “Why can’t you fly? Are you injured?”

He shrugged in a way that showed this wasn’t a big deal to him, as though it was normal. “I wasn’t allowed outside,” he stated simply.

You frowned, the idea of not being allowed outside was unfathomable to you. “You weren’t allowed?”

“My father didn’t let me,” his words remained even, unaware of the turmoil that was stirring in your gut the more he spoke, a turmoil that you couldn’t quite explain.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because I am a bastard,” he said, his tone empty and detached, as though he had long since accepted that was all he was reduced to.

You did not like how he seemed to convinced that that’s all he was worth.

“You’re a Shadowsinger,” you pointed out, remembering old tales of myths and legends you had read before. “Those are very rare.”

The shadows clinging to him fluttered and preened at the tips of his wings and over his shoulders as though they understood your words.

Azriel nodded in response, feet scuffing into the dirt often forest uncomfortably at your words.

“That’s so cool!” You whispered in awe, the admiration you felt was completely authentic but you were also hoping it comforted him a bit.

He looked at you, the only hint of confusion on his face was the soft crease between his browns and the subtlest tilt of his head. “You’re not scared?” He asked.

“Of what?” You laughed, as though the idea was absurd.

“Of me,” he raised one of his gloved hands, tapping his index finger into his chest.

“Have you given me a reason to be scared?”

He paused at your question, internally baffled at this entire interaction. “I suppose not,” he muttered to himself, the idea of you not being scared simply just from his presence was beyond him.

“What’s your name?” You abruptly changed the subject.

He was silent for a moment, contemplating whether he should tell you or not. “Azriel.”

“Azriel,” you repeated softly, testing how it sounded. “That’s a beautiful name,” you told him.

His shadows twitched, his wings almost flinched at your complement, Azriel shifted uncomfortably.

“Do you want to be my friend, Azriel?”

“I’ve never had a friend before,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t think I’d be good at it.”

You pursed your lips in response, looking around the forest floor before speaking. “I’ve never really had a friend either, there’s my brother, Rhys, but he doesn’t count. Do you have any siblings?”

Azriel tensed at your question, his entire body stiffening, hands clenching in his gloves. “No, it’s just me.”

“Well,” you began, “I’d be honoured to be your first friend, if you’ll be mine?”

You were beyond confusing to Azriel, the first person besides his mother to not look at him with fear or disgust, to look at him and just see a person.

Azriel did not reply verbally but he didn’t need to, you didn’t mind and so he simply nodded in response earning a beaming smile from you.

“Spread your wings out wide,” you instructed softly.

“They’re heavy,” Azriel muttered, wings spreading in stuttering movements, face twisting slightly as he concentrated on holding them.

Your eyes ran along his wings now that they weren’t tucked in painfully right, taking in the large span of them, they fluttered under your gaze, completely against Azriel’s control.

“That’s because your back muscles aren’t used to holding their weight, we’ll need to strengthen them,” you explained, eyes snapping away from his wings, towards his own hazel eyes instead.

“How do we strengthen them?” He asked.

“Exercises, most are trained from babies to use their wings so it comes a lot more naturally but we can do it together.” You smiled at him encouragingly.

You knew this was hard for him, you knew he thought he wasn’t worth your help and you knew that this entire situation was uncomfortable for him but you wanted to help him and you liked spending time with him.

“I struggled with flying at first,” you admitted, hoping it would comfort him in some way.

His eyes stopped glancing to the trees around you, now focused. “Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah, Rhys was flying before he could walk but I was too scared to do it. I didn’t trust myself. I kept imagining my wings just not working one day and falling to my death.”

Azriel shifted subtly, shadows restless. “How did you do it?”

“I had no choice,” you said. “One day my mother and I were looking at the stars from the balcony of our home and she just pushed me off, I had no choice but to trust my wings or fall and I flew for the first time that day.”

Azriel’s eyes widened. “She pushed you off the balcony!?”

You smiled widely. “Yeah, I was so angry, I didn’t speak to her for a week but it worked. I won’t be pushing you off ledges until you can hold your wings properly though.”

You could detect the subtle relief that reflected in the golden hazel hue of Azriel’s eyes, as though he expected you to be able to push him off of any ledge and force him to command his wings that didn’t seem willing to answer him yet.

At some point, you will take great joy in pushing him off a cliff.

Not yet though.

Only when he was ready.

“Where does my starlight keep running off to?” Your mother’s gentle voice filtered through your ears as she brushed through your hair carefully.

You were silent for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal your secret. “I made a friend.”

You felt the comb pause briefly against your head before it continued. Your mother hummed absentmindedly. “Did you? Do I get to meet this friend?”

You pursed your lips in contemplation, an unexplainable feeling of protectiveness surging through your body. “He’s shy, he doesn’t like being around people,” you told her.

You missed the amused smile that appeared on your mother’s face, no doubt intrigued at the strange protectiveness that you had for your age. “He?” She asked, almost teasingly.

You huffed in response but a smile grew on your face that you couldn’t stop. “Yes,” you said strongly before your tone shifted to pride. “He’s my friend, I’m teaching him to fly.”

Your mother paused entirely, turning your body to face her own causing your eyes to meet her own that held the same violet hue she passed down to you and your brother. “Teaching him to fly? How old is this friend?”

Your shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Rhys’ age. His father never let him outside so he can’t fly.”

Worry clouded your mother’s face at your words. “Is he a good boy?”

A bright smile overtook your face at her question. “He’s the best! He’s very quiet but he still speaks to me and he listens to all of my complaining and his shadows play with my hair!”

“Shadows?” Your mother’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“He’s a Shadowsinger,” you whispered. “Those are very rare.”

“They are,” she repeated. “Don’t tell your father about him, starlight.”

“I would never,” you swore, your voice demonstrating the dramatic outrage of a child who couldn’t fathom sharing information like that to your father. “Mama?”

“Yes, starlight?” She asked, turning you back around so she could start braiding your hair.

“Don’t tell Rhys, okay?” You told her, your brother could get way too protective, it was embarrassing.

“I would never tell Rhys, starlight. Or Cassian.” She promised.

“Definitely not Cassian.” You agreed.

“I’m not ready!” Azriel protested, warily looking over the edge of the cliff you had pretty much dragged him too.

“You are ready!” You argued. “You’ve got great control of your wings and your muscles are as strong as can be!”

Azriel shook his head, shadows darting around him, showing his nerves. “What if I fall?”

“Then I’ll catch you!” You replied simply.

“I’m too heavy for you to catch me!” He protested.

“You are not, I’m strong!” You argued, outraged at his accusation. “I’ll hold your hands?” You proposed, already reaching out towards his own gloved hands.

Azriel looked down at your outstretched hands, hesitation clear on his face, he really wasn’t sure about this but he did really want to be able to fly.

He relented, placing his hands in yours, earning himself one of your bright smiles, stars twinkling happily in your eyes.

Your wings fluttered slowly, not enough to lift you off the ground, just enough to encourage Azriel to copy your actions.

You slowly increased the force at which your wings beat, air building with the crevice of each controlled flap of the membrane.

Azriel copied your movements, his own wings much larger in comparison to any you’ve seen on other children your age, your own were quite big for a female Illyrian so young.

Azriel felt the change in gravity, the way his feet were itching to leave the ground on their own accord, as though his body was fully attuned and aware to what was currently happening even if it was unfamiliar.

“You’re doing it,” you whispered proudly, your own feet lifting off the ground before Azriel’s but your hands stayed in his as you remained stationary in the air, feet just slightly off the ground as you waited patiently for his own body to rise into the wind.

“You’re so close, just a bit more.” You encouraged him.

The second the air swept beneath Azriel’s feet for the first time, it felt as though his entire body was about to fall backwards as he had nothing to stand on but your hands tightened on his own, keeping him straight as he unsteadily rose with you, trying to focus on keeping his wings moving.

“It’ll come naturally the more you do it,” you told him. “You won’t even have to think about it.”

Azriel wasn’t so sure about that but as he felt the wind beneath his wings as he became airborne for the first time, with your hands holding his, he chose to believe you anyway.

“You’re flying Azriel!” Sheer joy and pride filled your face as you looked at him, he thought you looked beautiful like this.

The wind causing your hair to flutter around your face, eyes sparkling at the freedom that flying gave you and your smile took up your whole face as it always did.

Distracted by the sight of you in your element, Azriel lost focus of his wings causing him to quickly drop a few feet but your hands tightened on his just as his heart dropped in his chest out of panic.

He concentrated on beating his wings again, fluttering slightly higher than previously.

But even as he concentrated on flying, his mind was also on something else.

You had caught him, just like you said you would.

Wake. Wake. Wake.

Their hissing little whispers nudged you from unconsciousness. The cold concrete of the cave dug uncomfortably into your back. You groaned, shifting as your eyes opened, adjusting to the thick, clouded darkness you had been forced to endure for five centuries.

Another day it remained the same.

A sharp, slithering coldness nudged against your cheek, and again against your fingertips. You looked down in confusion, taking in the grey-black strands of darkness fluttering around your hands.

You raised your hands slightly, it was hard to see clearly but they resembled beings you had not seen in a very long time. The dark strands fluttered around your fingertips as you stared intently at them and in a movement so sharp, one lone sentient being jumped to your shoulder.

Your head snapped to the side as you looked at it, moving around, nestling into your clothes that had long since been reduced to scraps of fabric.

The beating beneath your chest stuttered as you stared at them.

Shadows.

They were shadows.

Master. Master. Master.

She hears us. She hears us.

They fluttered around you in a way that seemed to portray excitement.

Was that them talking?

“Azriel?” You whispered, broken yet that sick part of you still held a bit of hope.

Many years you had locked out memories of the Shadowsinger yet it never worked too well, you could never forget him and you would never forget the sentient beings that obeyed him either.

No.

They almost sounded like hisses.

“Not Azriel then.” You muttered. It did not surprise you, not really.

You didn’t understand.

“Another Shadowsinger?” You asked, it earned that same excited fluttering dance as before. Yes.

But who? You wondered.

It seemed they knew your thoughts too.

You. You.

Your face contorted into confusion. You weren’t a Shadowsinger.

You allowed yourself to think of Azriel again. Not of him exactly or the feeling of his love that had faded long ago but of his story.

Azriel had not been born a Shadowsinger.

How had Azriel become a Shadowsinger?

He had been locked in a dark cell for eleven years and had no choice but to find companionship within the darkness itself.

Oh.

“You’re my shadows.” You did not question this time.

Yes. They hissed again.

“But the faebane chains?” You wondered aloud.

“Shadows are not magic, they’re simply part of me.” Azriel had told you that before.

You studied them again, more intently this time and whilst they resembled the shadows of Azriel’s so very much there was the slightest hint of a difference; they weren’t just a grey-black, they had the slightest underlying tint of purple.

They truly were yours.

Release chains. They muttered, not to you, to themselves, fluttering around frantically.

“I can’t,” you whispered in long accepted defeat. “They won’t come off, someone else needs to do it.”

Your newly acquired shadows ignored you, muttering to themselves.

Shadowsinger will do it. Spymaster will do it.

But your energy was draining again, conscious slipping into darkness, your shadows slipping through the cracks of the cave without you knowing.

Azriel had been born alone and he would die alone.

He had accepted that was all life was made for him, there were those years he had you, moments were he thought he’d have you forever but you were taken, brutally slaughtered along with your mother in the spring court.

He had never and will never forgive himself for not being there to protect you. Truthfully he did not know how Rhysand could go on with life after that, not that his High Lord and brother didn’t deserve to live, he did, but how had grief not taken his sanity Azriel would never know.

He would never know how Rhys could look in the mirror and not see the shadows of his mother and sister, not when some days Azriel could not look into his eyes and see the very reflection of the young woman he lost, his woman.

It would forever just be Azriel and his shadows.

Another night that Azriel slept in your room alone, beneath your sheets, on the pillows you always hid that ridiculous stuffed bat beneath.

When he awoke this time though, it was different.

His shadows, usually fluttering lazily were muttering and batting around recklessly, their unease settling in Azriel’s chest, having the spymaster looking around the room carefully.

The only thing that seemed wrong were his shadows themselves, it was as though they were fighting each other?

Intruder. Intruder. They hissed, flying into each other as though they were in a sort of disorientated state. Azriel had never seen anything like it before.

Deep down, Azriel understood that there was no intruder in the House of Wind but he did not understand what they could be referring to.

The bond between himself and his shadows was strange. They told him things yes, but a lot of their communication came down to feelings, he felt their unease, their frustration, as though they were participating in an internal battle.

But why?

He sat up in your bed and observed them closely. He too, could see that there was something off but couldn’t quite put his mind to it.

Intruder. But where?

The shadows hissed at each other, floating around the room in distress, it was when the golden rays of the morning sunrise shone through the balcony window that he saw it.

His eyes, always so sharp, caught that difference in his shadows. Not his shadows, he concluded. Eyes widening, he reached out to that invisible thread and called his shadows back to him with a snap.

There it was.

A small cluster that did not return to him, a cluster of shadows that looked just the slightest different to his own. That underlying purple tint was not his.

He tried to reach out, tried to find that tether to them.

Nothing.

They did not seem threatening though.

They fluttered and danced around before him, as though they were trying to communicate with him but could not.

Help. His own shadows muttered.

“Help?” He questioned.

They plead help. They hissed into his ears. Another Shadowmaster. Trapped.

Azriel shook his head, he was the only shadowmaster.

No. They hissed, more stern this time, as though telling him he was wrong.

Azriel removed himself from your bed, pulling on his Illyrian leathers as quickly as possible, not even strapping his weapons to himself. Instead he simply grabbed Truthteller alone into its sheath.

He approached the bedroom door, turning to see if those other shadows would follow, they were.

He let himself out of the room, shadows, his and not his following behind closely, he barged into Rhys’ study causing the High Lord to jump, not that he would ever admit.

“Azriel?” Rhys greeted, looking up from his papers in barely concealed surprise. “A knock would be nice.”

“We have a problem.” Azriel simply responded earning Rhys’ full attention.

“What is it?”

Azriel held out a gloved hand and while Azriel had no means to communicate with these shadows, they understood him and gathered into his palm, fluttering into a rounded shape.

Rhys simply looked at them in confusion. “What am I looking at? New party trick?”

Azriel shook his head, face contorting as he studied them. “They’re not mine, I can’t communicate with them.”

“What?” Rhys uttered to himself.

“There’s another Shadowsinger out there,” Azriel responded, mostly to himself. “They communicate with my shadows but I can’t understand them myself.”

“Another Shadowsinger?” His High Lord mumbled, shaking his head. “No, you’re the only Shadowsinger alive.”

“Not anymore,” Azriel argued, his and the guest shadows beginning to flutter wildly in their own disagreement. “Apparently they’re trapped.”

Chained. His shadows corrected. Caved.

“Chained,” he spoke aloud.

“Perhaps for good reason,” Rhys argued, whilst Azriel was his brother and he trusted him beyond measures, he was well aware just how powerful Shadowsingers were, if this other Shadowsinger was locked away then perhaps it was because it was deserved.

Azriel shook his head, a sort of confused anguish taking over his features as he observed the shadows sitting in his palm. “They don’t feel threatening, or evil. They’re scared, pleading for help, for freedom.”

“How do you know they’re not pretending? That this other Shadowsinger hasn’t sent these here to play a ruse just to get their freedom?” Rhys asked.

The guest shadows in his palm shrunk down in defeat whilst his own fluttered in agitation around his shoulders and the tips of his wings.

She doesn’t know they’re here. She can’t control it yet.

Azriel listened to their whispers with widened eyes before looking at Rhys. “She cannot control them, this ability must be newly manifested, they came here on their own. Besides, shadows don’t work like that, they can’t fake feelings or emotions.”

“She?” Rhys sat up straighter in his chair at the newfound information.

“I can’t explain it, Rhys,” Azriel muttered, deep in thought. “I have this feeling that I need to free her, I don’t know why, it just feels right to.”

Those lone little shadows of yours clung to Azriel in the following days, against your knowledge. Azriel spent that time preparing himself for rescuing you, not that he knew it would be you he was rescuing, trying to gain as much information as he could through his own shadows translating messages back and forth with yours.

It was strange for Azriel, not only that there were sentient echoes of darkness that for some reason he could not communicate with but also knowing that somewhere out there, trapped and alone, there was another like him, another who could communicate with the darkness and melt into the shadows, even if it was a new manifestation.

The cave you were imprisoned in, he learned, was located somewhere in The Middle, because of course it was.

What other place would be sick enough to have trapped a person so long that the shadows had sought them out?

Trapped for centuries. The shadows had told him.

Bound by faebane chains, tormented by memories of a time that had long since faded.

Azriel, in all he had been through and in all his grief and terror over the years, could not imagine being trapped within the same four walls for hundreds of years.

He had barely lasted eleven, Rhys had hardly lasted fifty and yet out there, a poor woman had lasted hundreds of years, alone.

A woman of his kind.

The cave, as Azriel stood before it, was hardly a cave. It was more a carved hole in the ground, hidden by overgrown moss and shrubbery that even he, a spymaster, would have overlooked had he passed by without your shadows leading him to it.

He wasn’t even sure he’d be able to squeeze his overgrown body into it.

Your shadows shot forward like whips, diving into the underground cave, no doubt snapping back to you, even though your lack of control, they were drawn to you, desired to be close to your being.

Azriel crouched down, inspecting the gap in the ground, his own shadows fluttering around in agitation, some even darting ahead into the cave. He peeled off his outer layers that he strapped his weapons to, sending them down into the cave before him.

Risky, no doubt, but he felt no threat towards whatever presence was inside this cave, only an innocently, trapped Shadowsinger.

One that meant no harm, only desiring freedom.

He heaved himself through the gap, the concrete lining the underground cave scratching against his arms and shoulders as he dragged himself through, gravity doing most of the work, allowing him to drop down onto solid stone and rock.

It smelled awful; blood, dirt, faebane and a hell of a lot like someone had long since lost the will to live.

He saw the chains, loads of them, hanging from the ceiling, from the walls, even some bound to the ground with bolts.

Even as someone bound by shadows and member of the Night Court, Azriel could not see clearly in the darkness of this pit but his shadows led the way, they led him to your shadows.

Your shadows that covered just about every part of you, hiding you as though attempting to protect your presence from anyone who could possibly mean harm, leaving you just the image of a darkened, fuzzy blur.

“I will not harm her,” Azriel promised. “I only want to free her, take her back to the Night Court, help her heal and gain control.”

He saw the way they hesitated, how they debated whether they had made the right decision in finding him or not.

She trusted you. They whispered, confessed. His own shadows translating. Long time ago.

Azriel did not know what they meant by that. Had he known her once upon a time?

It was when they finally relented and made the decision to fade away from covering your body that Azriel, despite all the gore and torment he had witnessed in his life, felt like he was going to be sick as his eyes fell upon the battered figure of a young, fae woman.

His fae woman.

No. He shook his head, as though it would shake the sick illusion from his mind.

Yet you remained in his sight.

He knew that figure, that hair, those lashes. It has all haunted his every sleep and movement for the last five hundred years. The colour beneath your eyelids that he had drenched his walls in, that he would look upon every morning and every night.

Even unhealthily slimmer than you had been five hundred years ago, there would not be a single moment or a single version of you in which Azriel would not recognise.

The first person who had shown him grace, who had shown him that kindness and love does in fact exist, the person who had given him the family that he still clings to today in hopes of grasping at every last remainder of you that he had believed was long lost.

Your name was a ghost on his lips as he surged forward, shadows following, your own fluttering at his shoulders now as he unsheathed truth-teller and sliced through the chains binding you to this sick prison.

The dagger you had given him.

The first gift he had ever received.

He collapsed to his knees beside your battered, unconscious body.

Your breaths shallow, wrists and ankles raw from centuries of imprisonment, body all but skin and bones.

He smoothed a marred thumb over your cheekbone, hands shaking as he took you in, your body surrendered to his touch as though finally, it had found something safe it could relax itself in.

And though you were unaware, still in the depths of your mind, your eyes had fluttered open, a deep purple hue that he had missed for hundreds of years.

Azriel choked on a sob as he gazed upon you again, his soul shattering open at the sight of the only person he had ever loved in his five hundred years walking the lands of Prythian.

He felt the moment part of his soul tore from his chest and landed straight into yours, a golden thread deep within him keeping it tethered to himself even though it now sat with you.

Because even though Azriel had never needed the confirmation of the Cauldron to know what you were to him, why had it taken him finding you after so long to finally snap into place?

[jjlevin]

Screaming, crying, hungry for more😩

[daycourtofficial]

A Bite Sized Romance

Summary: you offer to make dinner for Azriel, but he gives you half-assed reasons as to why he can’t make it.

Author’s note: I love love love this idea it’s been floating around my head for a LONG time 💕

“Have you ever had ratatouille?” You ask Azriel, taking a bite of the dish in front of you.

Every Thursday, you and the shadowsinger go out to a different restaurant, usually in Velaris, occasionally in other courts. Seeing the shadowsinger could be difficult during the week, especially with your busy schedule, so you two set aside Thursday nights to eating dinner together.

Your brain had a hard time understanding that these were not necessarily dates, even though that is exactly what Cassian, Mor, the whole IC, and even Azriel and yourself call them.

“No, what’s rat patootie?” He says, taking a bite of his pasta.

“Ratatouille,” you correct, sighing wistfully, “it’s a traditional dish my mom used to make when I was a kid. I don’t think annyone in Velaris makes it. This dish kind of reminds me of it, but it’s not the same.”

You sit up, a smile stretching across your face. “Maybe next Thursday I’ll cook it for us. It’s so much better homemade - what do you say?”

He stills at your words, almost choking on his food. Through coughs he tells you, “surely there’s somewhere we can go for it, I wouldn’t want to trouble you with cooking.”

“But I like cooking,” you object. “And despite the copious amounts of meals we’ve shared together, I don’t think I’ve ever cooked for you.”

He doesn’t want to budge, so you pull out the big guns.

You pout your lip, making your eyes look as sad and endearing as possible, “please, Az? It reminds me of being a kid again. And I’d love to share that with you.”

Mother forsake him, he couldn’t say no to your sad, puppy dog eyes.

“Fine,” he grumbles, sure he’ll figure a way out of it before Thursday comes. Perhaps he could find a way to get impaled.

You squeal, “oooh you’re going to love it!”

-

Thursday was fast approaching, and Azriel was trying to use every excuse in the book to keep this dinner from happening. He told you Rhys had to send him on a mission that night, which you immediately turned around and went to Rhys’s office and asked him to send someone else.

Rhys, having no idea what you were talking about, sees Azriel in the doorway who tells him mind to mind, “come on, say you have to send me.”

Rhys sends the equivalent of a smirk to Azriel mentally and tells you, “my mistake, I didn’t realize what day I was telling him to leave.”

Azriel stood in the doorway and gave his brother the finger from behind you.

Azriel made excuses, all ranging from Cassian needing help with training, Feyre needing an escort to the Hewn City, even to Mor needing help with the upkeep of the horses in the guard. Every excuse was denied by his so-called family, not allowing him to use them as scapegoats. It was starting to make you suspicious.

Thursday morning after Azriel’s last ditch attempt to get out of the dinner, involving some excuse about Eris needing rescuing, you sigh, exasperated.

“Okay Az, it was just an idea. Clearly you don’t want to do it, so just.. don’t bother, okay? Go save Eris from whatever it is that’s attacking him.”

You turn, wanting to leave the kitchen before Azriel sees how much this actually upsets you. “That’s not-“ he starts, trying to grab you as you pass him, but you wriggle from his grasp, disappearing into the hallway up to your bedroom.

Az was sitting on the kitchen counter, wallowing in self-pity over how poorly he handled that situation, when Cassian walked in.

“And what do you have to be so upset about, pretty boy?”

Azriel lifts his head, looking at Cassian eating a stupid banana. Gods, he wanted to throttle him. “Oh no, I’m Azriel and a beautiful woman wants to cook me dinner, even though I eat dinner with her most nights and have weekly dates with her even though I deny anyth-“

Cassian stops, taking a bite of his banana. He looks up, and realization dawns on him.

“Oh my gods,” he says, his mouth full of banana. Azriel decides to play the denial game, because surely Cassian did not figure out the secret he’s kept guarded for several months while eating a fucking banana.

Cassian looked at him, turning to look up the stairs where you had left just a few moments ago, “you two?”

Azriel rolls his eyes, “we’re friends, yes.”

Cassian rolls his eyes even harder. “I’m not an idiot. You follow her around like a pitiful puppy,” he says, coming closer to his brother, “you two eat just about every meal together, but the one day she offers to cook for you suddenly you can’t find time for her?”

Cassian narrows his eyes at Azriel, “you ashamed of her or something?”

Azriel’s eyes widen, not only at Cassian’s question that he could ever be ashamed of you, but also at Cassian’s change in demeanor.

Cassian slips into the protective big brother role when it comes to you quite easily, Azriel thinks as Cassian puffs out his chest while he strides over to stand next to Azriel.

“Now why on earth would I be ashamed of her?”

Cassian inspects Azriel for a second before asking, “then why haven’t you told her?”

He pauses, then asks, “how long have you known?”

Azriel huffs, “known what?”

“That she’s your mate.”

Azriel stills at Cassian’s words. They liked to poke fun of Cass, calling him a dumb brute, but Cassian was no fool. If any member of his family were to discover his secret, it would be Cassian.

Azriel looks at him, “a few months. I’ve been… waiting.” He sighs, “I keep wanting to tell her and then I psyche myself out. Once I tell her, things will be… different.”

Azriel hates how quiet his voice becomes as he says, “what if she is ashamed of who the mother picked for her?”

Cassian’s chest deflates, all sense of protectiveness over you gone and replaced with protectiveness over his brother.

“Then she’d be a fool.”

Looking down, Azriel watches as Cassian’s foot gently nudges his own, a silent request from Cassian for him to look up.

“There is no way she would ever be ashamed of you or be upset that you’re her mate.”

The way Cassian is looking at Azriel makes him want to shy away, but Cassian keeps his gaze steady, almost locking Azriel’s eyes into place.

“I’d be willing to bet she has journals full of doodles where she draws little hearts with your names in it, and she also writes “Mrs. Shadowsinger”

The rise in octave in his brother’s voice causes a laugh to burst out of him, but Cassian continues.

“I once tried to sit next to you for a meal and I’ve never seen anyone move as quickly as she did to claim her seat. Honestly, this will come as a shock to no one.”

Azriel looked back up at his brother to find him already looking at him, a soft gaze grazing his face.

“We’re happy for you two.”

Azriel scoffs, “I take that to mean you’ve already told Rhysand?”

Cassian starts walking away, going to pick up the remainder of his banana. “Oh yeah, we’ve had a bet for about a year now. Rhys thought the bond had snapped for her, but I knew it would be you. You’ve made me a much richer man, Az.”

Cassian bows in thanks, ducking out the door as Azriel throws a different banana towards the space he was occupying.

-

You had been sulking in your room for what felt like hours after Azriel’s latest rejection. You spent the whole time flipping between thinking about all the little moments that had you swearing there was something happening between you two, and each and every excuse he had made to get out of this dinner.

Was your cooking that bad? Was he tired of you taking up every one of his Thursday nights?

The two of you spent an absurd amount of time together - you ate most meals together at the house, you saw each other multiple times every day. Were you wrong?

A knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts, but before you can respond, the door is opening and Cassian pokes his head in. He has a hand covering his eyes, but he’s made a slit between his middle and ring fingers, allowing him to still see.

“Are you decent?” He asks, looking around the room.

He sighs at seeing you dressed on your bed, pulling his hand away from his face as he walks in, closing the door behind him.

You giggled, “Cass the whole point is to not see someone naked.”

He rolled his eyes as he plopped down next to you on your bed, “you don’t even want to give me a peak? I’ve had such a hard day, a little skin would make me feel better.”

You laugh, picking up a pillow and hitting him with it. He lets you hit him, pretending to fall dramatically onto his back.

“Tell Rhys I loved him,” he sighs dramatically, pretending to die.

You laugh at his foolish antics, but Cassian continues to pretend he’s dead. You lean into him, about to poke his face, when he grabs your waist, hoisting you over his shoulder.

“Now come on, I’ve got shopping to do and I need your help.”

-

After Cassian had left, Azriel spent some time trying to decide how he could make this up to you. He didn’t want to force you into accepting a bond that you didn’t know about by presenting him with food.

He paced his room, his long legs gliding across the wooden floors making no noise. His shadows were combing through the house, trying to find out where you had gone after your earlier spat.

Azriel replaced with pacing with purposeful steps as he headed towards his bedroom door, the perfect solution coming to him.

-

“Thank you Cassian,” you say, squeezing his arm your hand was tucked into.

“For what? My incredibly charming presence?” He smirks down at you.

You scoff, “I felt awful earlier but you pulled me out of my spiraling, thanks.” You say, nudging him a bit.

Cassian had gotten you out of your room and the two of you walked around Velaris, mostly people watching and talking.

He hums, “well, both of my brothers are idiots,” he says, getting a laugh out of you. “They take turns on who holds the idiot stick. Today it’s Azriel.”

“Do you ever hold the idiot stick?”

“Occasionally, very rarely, I will pass it between the two of them, so I only have it for a moment or two.”

You snort, looking down at your feet. If Cassian thought Azriel was being stupid, does he see what you see?

You start to ask him, to prod him for more answers about Azriel, when he pats your hand, turning your attention to where the two of you had ended up on this walk.

The townhouse.

Your brows crease in confusion as Cassian removes your hand from his elbow, pats your shoulder, and tells you to have a good night.

You start to sputter, wanting to know why you’re here. He shrugs, “I don’t question my orders.” He gives you a two finger salute before turning around and walking away.

You turn back around, looking at the entrance to the townhouse, afraid of what you’ll find on the other side of the door, but going up and knocking anyway.

The door opens, but no one is there. A small shadow swirls around you, moving up from your feet to your face, caressing your cheek before zipping off to the kitchen.

You step through the threshold and a new shadow comes and shuts the door, another two come and help you take your coat off and hang it up for you.

You walk towards the kitchen, where you can hear the clattering of plates and some delicious aromas filling the whole house. Inside the kitchen you find Azriel, with a frilly apron tied around his waist, putting the finishing touches on two plates at the table.

“What’s all this?” You ask him, doubt creeping in that this isn’t meant for you.

“Sit, sit,” he beckons, pulling out a chair for you. You look around the room, covered in flickering candlelight and flowers. He must have been working on this for hours.

You look down at your plate, the bright colors of ratatouille catching your eye. You gasp, wanting to know how much effort he went to find a recipe for it.

He takes off the apron, sitting across from you.

“I… made an ass of myself, and I’d like to apologize first and foremost for that.” You open your mouth to interrupt him, but he holds up a hand. “Let me finish, I have.. a lot to tell you.”

He takes a deep breath, stilling his nerves. You look so pretty in the glow of the candles, and the slight concern you’ll hate him is enough to distract him, but he has to tell you this.

“There’s a reason I didn’t want you to cook for me. A few months ago we were in the library, reading, and I looked up and I watched you tuck your hair behind your ear, laughing at something in your book and I.. felt it.”

You’re in a trance, listening to him speak.

“I felt like I was dying and coming back to life, like your hand was wrapped around my heart, squeezing in time, keeping it beating. I made up some half-assed excuse to leave, because I needed to talk to Rhys.”

You looked at him, hoping your gaze would encourage him to continue.

“Rhys confirmed what I thought it was - the bond snapping. And I was terrified.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I was terrified if I told you, you’d deny the bond, you’d break my heart. So I… put off telling you. I couldn’t.”

He looks down at his lap, fidgeting his fingers.

“I kept trying to tell you, then I’d chicken out. Then when you offered to cook for me, I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t let you accidentally accept the bond, accept me without knowing about it.”

He sighs, “I felt awful when I realized you thought I was rejecting you. Far from it. So I’ve uh.. made you dinner.”

You finally speak, “you made me dinner.”

“I made you dinner. And dessert, actually.”

Leave it to Azriel to outdo himself by finding the time to make dessert.

You weren’t letting a single emotion show on your face, and it made a shiver run up Azriel’s spine.

After what could have been hours, you slowly smiled, looking at him, “what kind of dessert did you make?”

He pauses, “I uh made you- us, uh chocolate mousse. I made two, but I thought we could share one.”

He looks at you, still not giving anything away, “if you want to, of course.”

He shifts, your silence making him uneasy.

“If you don’t want to accept it, I understand. I kept it from you, and I’m me, loving me would be rotten work- what are you doing?”

In the middle of his rambling, you picked up your fork, getting a nice helping of food on your fork, bringing it up to your mouth.

“Well, my mate made me dinner, and it looks incredible. Why would I not want to take a bite?”

He looks at you, a rush of emotions flooding him. Surprise, confusion, elation.

“But, but I can promise you to love me, to be my mate, it’s rotten work.”

You smile, “not to me it’s not.”

You pause, “not if it’s you,” and take a bite.

His chest sings, feeling warmth radiating throughout him. Feeling love radiate through him, and he realizes that’s you.

You keep eating the food, that hum getting louder and more vibrant, until you’ve cleared your plate, and stride over to him.

You grab his face in your hands, tilting his head so he’ll look into your eyes. “If you think I am not aware of who you are, what you do, your darkest parts, you are mistaken. And if you think I will shy away from those things, you are a fool.”

He hadn’t realized he was crying until you swiped your thumb across his cheek, swiping it away.

You smile down at him, and he has never felt so loved, so whole as he does in this moment. His mate, the one person the cauldron deemed would understand him, just chose him.

He feels like that little boy, looked in the dungeon, daydreaming about being saved by an angel. And he has.

He stands up, cupping your face in his hands, “I was in love with you before the bond snapped for me. I’m not here just because the cauldron told me to be, let me assure you that.”

You smile, a heat creeping up your cheeks. “I’m only here for the chocolate mousse.”

He laughs, a genuine, roaring laugh.

You pull his face in close to yours, gazing into his eyes. “And I have been in love with you since the day after I met you.”

His eyebrows shoot up, “the day after?”

You smile, “well I thought I was in love with you that first day, but then on that second day I heard you speak, and I knew no one would ever compare.”

You feel his happiness in your chest, as if his heart is also in your ribcage, yours and his intertwined, dancing through your chest together.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, his mouth so close to your own your breaths are intermingling.

You smile at his thoughtfulness, his hesitation.

“Only if you promise to never stop.”

[ophelia-vudenburg]

Eclipse Tango part 3

————> an Azriel x female reader fanfic

>There will only be smut if it is stated at the state of a chapter.

summary: You, the Spymaster of the Day Court, have been feeling a tug in your chest towards the North ever since the War with Hybern; are you ready to find out what is waiting for you there?

warning: suggestive use of words

all rights of the characters and the main story belong to ACOTAR’s author SJM, only the romance story belongs to me.

Part 1 - The Lightdancer

Part 2 - The Shadowsinger

Part 3 - The Tango

“I only want two things in this world. I want you, and I want us.”

————

The golden sun of the Day Court was usually the perfect cure for any ailment, but for Mor, it only seemed to highlight the shadows she had brought with her from the north.

Three months had passed since your visit to Velaris. Three months of watching Azriel become a ghost in his own home. He was efficient, as always, but there was a new, hollow silence to him—a stillness that felt less like peace and more like a held breath.

Mor sat on a marble terrace overlooking the Thousand Libraries, a glass of amber wine in her hand. Beside you were lounging on a chaise, your light sparks lazily weaving a crown of glowing jasmine to place on Mor’s head.

"You’re being very quiet, Morrigan," you said, your eyes tracking the way a single spark drifted toward Mor’s troubled face. "Even for you. Did Cassian eat your favorite pastries again? Or is Rhysand being particularly 'High Lord-ish' this week?"

Mor forced a smile, but it felt brittle. "Just a long season, Y/N. The Reconstruction is... demanding."

"It’s more than that," you murmured, sitting up. Your silks hissed against the stone. "You’ve been here for two days and you haven't mentioned a single piece of Night Court gossip. You’re carrying a weight that doesn't belong in the sun. Is everyone alright? Is... is that quiet Spymaster of yours still lurking in the dark?"

Mor flinched. The casual mention of Azriel—so light, so oblivious—felt like a physical blow. "He’s fine. He’s... working."

You sensed the wall going up and, with a Spymaster’s grace, chose not to push. "Well, whatever it is, the Day Court is here to hold you up. I have to go debrief the border scouts, but Helion is in the solar. Go find him. He always knows how to make you laugh."

An hour later, Mor found Helion standing by a massive, sun-drenched window, his golden robes reflecting the brilliance of the afternoon. He turned as she entered, his amber eyes immediately softening. He didn't offer a joke or a playful wink. He simply held out his arms.

Mor walked into his embrace, letting the scent of cedar and warm spice ground her.

"She has no idea, Helion," Mor whispered into his chest, her voice breaking. "She thinks he’s just a grumpy male who didn't like her light. She has no idea that every time she mentions his name, she’s unknowingly twisting a knife in his soul."

Helion pulled back, his expression turning grave. He led her to a pair of low-slung chairs and poured her a fresh glass of wine with a steady hand. "You’ve been wearing this misery like a second skin since you arrived. Tell me. What is it that Rhysand is too political to say, and Cassian is too loud to whisper?"

Mor looked at her hands, the truth bubbling up in her throat until she couldn't keep it down. "The week Y/N was in Velaris... they met in the training pit. She bumped into him, Helion. Physical contact."

Helion stilled. As a High Lord, he knew the lore. He knew the triggers. "And?"

"The bond snapped," Mor said, the words finally tumbling out. "For Azriel. It was instantaneous. It was loud enough that even his shadows started dancing with her sparks. He’s been a wreck ever since. He avoids her name, he avoids the Day Court, and he’s convinced himself that she’s too pure, too 'light' for a male with scarred hands and a dark reputation."

Helion’s amber eyes flared with a sudden, sharp intensity. He stood up, pacing the length of the solar, his golden jewelry clinking rhythmically. "Azriel. The Shadowsinger. And my Y/N."

"He won't tell her," Mor continued, her voice rising with frustration. "He thinks he’s protecting her from a life in the shadows. And Y/N... she’s so focused on her duty here, so convinced that they are 'naturally mismatched,' that she isn't even looking for the signs."

Helion stopped his pacing, looking out toward the horizon where you were currently working. A complex look crossed his face—half-protective brother, half-intrigued scholar.

"A Lightdancer and a Shadowsinger," Helion mused, his voice low and resonant. "The balance is perfect. Too perfect for fate to leave it alone." He looked back at Mor, his expression somber. "You’ve done the right thing telling me, Mor. This burden is too heavy for one court to carry."

"What are you going to do?" Mor asked, a flicker of hope sparking in her chest.

Helion’s lips curved into a slow, calculated smile—the look of a High Lord who was about to start a very dangerous, very bright game of chess. "I think I’ll insist that Rhysand’s Spymaster comes to collect the payment in person."

Mor let out a long, shaky breath. "He’ll kill you."

"Let him try," Helion laughed, though his eyes remained serious. "I want to see if he can look my Lightdancer in the eye and tell her she doesn't belong in his arms.

The atmosphere in the River House was quiet, the scent of the Sidra drifting through the open windows, but the tension between the High Lord and High Lady was palpable. Mor had returned from the Day Court days ago, and while she hadn't broken Helion’s confidence, the look in her eyes had told Rhysand everything he needed to know.

Rhysand leaned against the doorframe of Feyre’s studio, watching her add a stroke of starlight-blue to a canvas. "Mor didn't say it," Rhysand murmured, his voice a low vibration, "but Helion knows. And if Helion knows, he’s already weaving a sunbeam into a snare for our brother."

Feyre set her brush down, wiping her hands on a rag. She looked at her mate, her gaze soft but determined. "Azriel is drowning in this city, Rhys. He spends his nights staring at the horizon and his days buried in reports he’s already finished. We can’t let him waste decades waiting for a 'diplomatic reason' to see her again."

Rhysand straightened, a familiar, predatory spark in his violet eyes. "Then we give him a reason that has nothing to do with the heart and everything to do with the crown."

An hour later, Azriel was summoned.

He stepped out of the shadows of the study, his movements as silent as a held breath. His Siphons glowed a steady, lethal blue, but his face was a mask of professional neutrality. Behind him, his shadows were unusually still, clinging to his leathers like ink.

"Rhys. Feyre," Azriel greeted, bowing his head slightly. "You have a task?"

Rhysand sat behind his desk, looking every bit the formidable High Lord of Night. Beside him, Feyre sat with her hands folded, her expression grave.

"We’ve been monitoring the movements around the Lake," Rhysand began, referring to the prison of the deathless sorcerer, Koschei. "Intelligence suggests that the Day Court has intercepted a series of communications that we haven't been able to crack. Specifically, information that Y/N has gathered through her Lightdancer networks."

Azriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of your name, but he didn't flinch.

"The threat of Koschei is growing," Feyre added, her voice smooth. "And while Y/N is a brilliant Spymaster, she doesn't have your experience with the darker ancient languages. We’ve decided to appoint you to the Day Court indefinitely. You are to assist her in the investigation and find out exactly what she knows about Koschei’s influence. Stay as long as the mission deems necessary."

The silence that followed was heavy. Azriel looked from Rhysand to Feyre. He saw the calculated seriousness in Rhysand’s face and the flickering intelligence in Feyre’s eyes.

He wasn't stupid. He was the finest Spymaster in Prythian’s history. He knew the Koschei threat was real, but he also knew that Rhysand could have just as easily asked for a written report. This was a tether. An excuse. A gift wrapped in the guise of a military order.

His shadows suddenly flared, dancing with a frantic, joyous energy that betrayed his stoic expression. They knew.

They were already singing of the sun.

Azriel looked Rhysand dead in the eye, his gaze stripping away the High Lord’s mask. He saw the "brother" beneath the "Lord," the one who was practically begging him to go find his happiness.

"Indefinitely," Azriel repeated, the word tasting like a prayer.

"Until the threat is neutralized," Rhysand said, though he couldn't quite hide the small, knowing curve of his lips.

Azriel inclined his head deeply, his voice thick with a gratitude he couldn't put into words. "I understand the importance of the mission. I’ll make the necessary arrangements and depart at sunrise."

"Az," Feyre called out as he turned to leave. He paused, looking back. "Try to remember that light is meant to be shared, not just observed from the shadows."

Azriel didn't answer, but as he stepped back into the hallway, his shadows didn't just follow him—they seemed to lead the way, racing toward the stairs, toward the armory, and toward a future that suddenly didn't feel so dark.

The sun rose over the Day Court like a physical weight of gold, pouring over the white marble pillars and turning the vast libraries into glowing citadels. For Azriel, it was an assault on the senses.

His shadows hissed and retreated into the seams of his leathers, but his soul—tethered to that invisible, golden thread—was pulling him forward so hard he felt he might break if he didn't land soon.

He touched down on the main reception terrace, his dark wings sending a cloud of flower petals spiraling into the air.

"If it isn't the Lord of Gloom himself! Right on time for the most beautiful hour of the day!" Helion was already there, looking far too vibrant for a male who hadn't slept. He was draped in sheer, golden linen that left little to the imagination, his amber eyes glittering with a predatory sort of matchmaking glee. "Rhysand mentioned you were coming. Something about Koschei? Or was it that you simply missed the feeling of actual heat on your skin?"

"The mission is high-priority, Helion," Azriel said, his voice a low, disciplined rasp. He looked around, his shadows twitching toward the scent of citrus and cedar. "Where is the Spymaster?"

"Ah, Y/N," Helion grinned, looping a friendly arm around Azriel’s armored shoulders—a gesture the Shadowsinger tolerated only because they were in Day Court territory. "She’s on the Eastern Terrace. She’s been... 'conditioning' her body. I’ve insisted on a more rigorous physical regimen, though she claims it’s a waste of time. Come, I’ll show you."

The Eastern Terrace was a masterpiece of open space, floating high above the city. The air was warm and still.

You were alone, or so you thought. You were currently deep into a series of stretches you had adapted from ancient texts—yoga-like bends designed to increase flexibility for infiltration. Helion’s "training" was a bore, so you had decided to do your own late-night-turned-early-morning flow to relax your muscles.

You were wearing a morning gown of the finest, most treacherous Day Court silk. It was a shimmering, semi-sheer cream color that clung to every curve, slit high up the thigh and plunging dangerously low at the back. As you moved into a particularly controversial bend—a deep, forward fold that involved a complex twist of your spine and limbs—the silk stretched precariously thin.

Your light sparks were bobbing lazily around your ankles, glowing with a soft, post-workout warmth.

"And here we have the pride of my court," Helion announced, his voice booming across the marble.

You yelped.

You didn't just stand up; you scrambled. Your foot caught on the hem of your gown, and you spun around to see the High Lord of Day and the Spymaster of Night standing barely ten feet away.

Your eyes went wide, locking onto Azriel. He was in his full Illyrian leathers, the blue siphons pulsing like rhythmic heartbeats. He looked like a dark god carved from obsidian, standing in the middle of your sun-drenched sanctuary.

In a fit of pure, unadulterated mortification, your brain short-circuited. You felt the cool air against your skin and the way the silk gown shifted. Remembering exactly how "controversial" your position had just been, you instinctively slammed your hands over your backside to cover yourself—completely forgetting that you were currently facing them anyway. A last attempt of dignity.

"You!" You squeaked, your face turning a shade of scarlet that made your previous "magenta" blush look pale. "Why are you—why are you here? And why are you looking?"

Helion let out a bark of laughter, leaning against a pillar. "Oh, we were just admiring the form, Y/N. Very... tactical."

Azriel didn't laugh. He couldn't. His hazel eyes were dark, tracking the way your light orbs were currently zipping around your head in a frantic, shimmering panic. His shadows had completely abandoned his shoulders; they were creeping across the white marble toward your feet, lured by the scent of your skin and the sheer, radiant chaos of your presence.

"Y/N," Azriel said, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through embers. He didn't look away. If anything, his gaze was so intense it felt like a physical touch.

"Don't 'Y/N' me! And stop lurking!" You shouted, your hands still firmly pressed to your glutes while you glared at them from the front. "Go away! I am in the middle of... important, secret Day Court business!"

"Is that what we're calling it now?" Helion teased, nudging Azriel with an elbow. "I'll leave you two to discuss the... logistics of the mission. Azriel is here indefinitely, Y/N. He’s all yours."

Helion vanished with a wink and a shimmer of light, leaving the two of you alone in the silence of the sunrise.

You finally realized where your hands were. You slowly, painfully dropped them to your sides, your lights now turning a deep, embarrassed violet. "Indefinitely?" You whispered, your bravado flickering.

Azriel took a single step forward, the blue of his siphons casting a cool glow over your golden skin. "Indefinitely," he repeated. "And for what it's worth... the bend was perfectly executed."

You let out a long, shaky breath, finally smoothing the treacherous silk of your gown over your hips. You looked everywhere but at the blue stones pulsing on his chest. Facing him right now, after all the dirty thoughts you had had for weeks every night since you left Velaris; felt illegal.

You sneaked a glance at his face, his eyes were focused on you, dancing with the quiet amusement for your reaction.

"Fine," you muttered, your voice regaining some of its Spymaster steel, though your cheeks remained a soft, sunset pink. "If you are to be my shadow for the foreseeable future, we might as well begin the debrief. Sit. I’ll have refreshment brought."

You two moved to a low, circular table carved from white quartz. Azriel sat with a heavy, lethal grace, his wings tucked tight, though his shadows were already sprawling across the floor toward you. He watched as the shadows wiped around your ankles, lifting the hem of your skirt. You ignored them, didn’t give them attention.

You clapped your hands twice.

Within moments, three male attendants drifted onto the terrace. If Azriel thought the Day Court was scandalous, these males were a testament to Helion’s "aesthetic." They were breathtaking—all golden skin, flowing hair, and dressed in little more than silk wraps that hung dangerously low on their hips.

"Mistress," one of them murmured, his voice like honey. He leaned down, his bare chest nearly brushing your shoulder as he placed a tray of chilled wine and sliced starfruit before you. He wasn’t just serving; he lingered, his fingers grazing your arm as he offered you a napkin. "You look radiant this morning. The training has served you well."

Another attendant chuckled, a low, melodic sound, as he set a bowl of pomegranate seeds in front of Azriel, though his eyes never truly left you. He reached out, tucked a stray golden lock of hair behind your ear, and whispered something that made you laugh—a bright, genuine sound that felt like a dagger to Azriel’s ribs.

Azriel didn't move, he was too collected for that, but the air around him turned frigid. His Siphons didn't just glow; they hissed with a suppressed, cobalt fire.

The mating bond, still raw and screaming in his blood, reacted with a primal, territorial roar. He wanted to stand up, wrap his scarred hands around the throats of these golden boys, and throw them off the terrace. He wanted to growl, to snap, to pull you against him until the only scent you could breathe was the salt and mist of his soul.

Mine. The word was a drumbeat in his head. My mate. My light.

His shadows were no longer playful. They were twisting into jagged, obsidian blades, snapping at the ankles of the attendants whenever they got too close to you. If it were up to him, you wouldn't be sitting across the table. You would be on his lap, your back against his chest, while he showed you exactly how a Shadowsinger claimed what belonged to him.

He had a sudden, intrusive vision of you dancing—not the tactical Refracted Step you had taught the Valkyries, but a private, slow dance of light and sparks, performed only for him in the dead of night. He imagined you sitting on him, thighs against his hips as you danced, rubbing yourself onto him like your life depended on it, head falling back- his filthy praises filling your ears.

Azriel could almost hear you moaning for him in his mind, his hands would be over your hips, grabbing and caressing, worshipping the light of you before he drowned you in his shadows, curled them inside you until you came apart and then begged for his cock.

He thought about it, of course he had. He could already feel you wrapped around him, fit perfectly, back arched as he kissed that tattoo on your chest and marked around it with his teeth.

He forced himself to take a sip of the wine, the tartness cutting through the heat in his throat. The image of you from ten minutes ago flashed behind his eyes—the way that cream silk had stretched over the curve of your body, the elegant, vulnerable arch of your spine, and the sheer, tantalizing view of you that you had so frantically tried to cover.

He remembered the way your muscles had rippled under the silk, the strength hidden beneath the grace. He realized then that he hadn't just been "admiring the form" as Helion suggested. He had been memorizing it. He subtly shifted himself, spreading his legs as he leaned back against his seat- his mind so easily had gone into the gutter, especially with the mating bond roaring his desire.

"Is the fruit not to your liking, Spymaster?" You asked, noticing his white-knuckled grip on the quartz table. You popped a pomegranate seed into your mouth, looking entirely too comfortable with the half-naked male still leaning over your chair.

Azriel’s gaze dropped to your lips, then flicked up to meet your eyes. The smirk he’d been fighting all day finally surfaced—sharp, dark, and utterly possessive.

"The fruit is fine, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a promise that made the attendants' smiles falter. "I was just thinking about that... tactical maneuver you were practicing earlier. I look forward to seeing the rest of your repertoire."

You choked slightly on your wine, your lights turning a frantic, flickering lavender. You knew—in that moment, you knew exactly what he was looking at. Your thighs clenched together under the table, breath hitching as you became painfully aware of the strain of his pants and the way his eyes assessed you like he was undressing you.

“The reports," you squeaked, waving the attendants away with a frantic hand. “Let’s just... let's talk about the reports."

Azriel’s smirk widened but he put a hand over to cover it, pressing his lips together not to laugh at the sheer scent of arousal radiating off of you. You didn’t seem to notice, only shifting and crossing your legs which made your tanned leg stand out, earning a quiet growl from the back of his throat he barely suppressed.

He wanted to hold those legs firmly, spread them and bury his face between them, taking you up to heaven with his mouth and tongue, your thighs closing on his head as you came. He wanted all of it, he wanted your mess.

The shimmering lavender of your lights slowly faded back to a steady, warm white as you forced yourself to focus. You were a professional. You were a Spymaster as much as he was. You were not going to be undone by a male who looked like he had been poured into those leathers by a vengeful god.

Though, a very sexy god you absolutely wanted to ride until your lights obeyed him and you couldn’t think of anything else.

"Right. Koschei," you said, your voice only wobbling for a fraction of a second. You leaned over the quartz table, spreading out a series of translucent vellum maps that shimmered in the morning sun. "My sparks... they aren't welcomed there. The Lake has a way of 'drinking' the light. Every time I sent a dancer toward the water's edge, it felt like the sun was being swallowed. I could see the shadows of the birds—the women trapped—but the closer my magic got to the center, the more it felt... suffocated."

You looked up at him, your eyes clouded with a rare frustration. "I found traces of a ritual—something involving ancient solar cycles—but I couldn't get close enough to read the runes on the stone. He knows the Day Court is watching. He waits for the light to reveal us."

Azriel didn’t look at the maps. He was still looking at you.

"Because light is a beacon," he said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that seemed to vibrate in your very bones. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, closing the distance between you until you could smell the cold, crisp scent of his shadows. "You are a brilliant Spymaster, Y/N, but you are trying to fight a void with a lantern. You're making yourself a target."

He got up and reached out, his scarred fingers tracing the edge of the vellum map, dangerously close to your hand. "My shadows don't just watch. They are the void. I’ve been able to slip beneath the surface tension of his wards. I’ve heard the whispers of the wind through the reeds. He isn't just looking for solar cycles; he's looking for a way to tether the sun itself."

He looked up then, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a sheer, terrifying confidence. "He’s looking for something like you. Which is why you’re not going back there alone."

You felt a sudden, sharp jolt in your lower stomach. It wasn't just his words; it was the way he said them—like he already owned the air you breathed. The subtle, possessive tilt of his head and the way his gaze dropped briefly to your throat before returning to your eyes made you feel completely exposed.

"I can handle myself, Azriel," you managed to say, though it sounded more like a breathy challenge than a statement of fact.

"I know you can," he murmured, his smirk returning, dark and devastating. "But why would you want to handle yourself when you have the most dangerous male in the Night Court at your disposal? I could hide your light, Lightdancer. Wrap it in so much darkness that not even a deathless sorcerer could find you."

He leaned in a fraction more, his voice a mere whisper of silk and steel. "I could make you invisible to everyone but me."

The imagery—the thought of being wrapped in his shadows, of being hidden away in his dark, protective embrace—sent a hot, tingle through you. You felt a sudden, traitorous ache in your core. Instinctively, you felt your thighs clench together again under the table, the fine silk of your gown create a soft, hidden friction against your skin.

You were suddenly very aware of the controversial slit in your gown and the way the morning heat was beginning to feel like a fever.

"That's... quite a tactical offer," you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

"It isn’t just a tactical offer," Azriel replied, his shadows suddenly surging forward, brushing against the hem of your gown with a slow, deliberate caress that made your breath catch in your throat.

He didn't pull away. He just stood there, radiant in his dark confidence, watching the way your lights began to flicker in a rhythmic, frantic pulse that mirrored the speed of your heart.

He knew. He definitely knew.

You were still unaware of the mating bond but that didn’t mean you did not want this man on top of you, behind you- fucking you against the wall, floor, bed, the tub, counter, everywhere he could do it. His nostrils flared, smelling the arousal on you again and he closed his eyes briefly not to act on his impulses his body begged him to.

You needed to move. The air on the terrace had become too thick, too charged with the scent of crushed starfruit and Azriel’s overwhelming, dark presence. You stood abruptly, your chair scraping against the quartz.

"I have training," you announced, your voice a bit too high. "Helion’s orders. Physical conditioning. I’m sure you have... reports to read. Or shadows to brood in."

Azriel looked at you with a tilted head, a slow, predatory movement. "Helion mentioned your regimen. I believe I offered to assist."

"I have a trainer, thank you," you snapped, already heading toward the marble stairs that led to the training pits. "He’s very capable. And much less... distracting."

The training pit was a sunken circle of white sand, surrounded by pillars that shimmered in the midday heat. Your trainer, a golden-skinned Fae named Sepha, was already waiting, spinning a practice staff with effortless grace. He flashed you a flirtatious grin as you approached.

"Ready to sweat, Mistress?" Sepha asked, his eyes trailing down your silk and absolutely unfit for training dress.

He didn't get an answer. Instead, the temperature in the pit seemed to plummet. Sepha’s smile faltered as a wall of living shadow swept over the sand, and Azriel stepped into the circle.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. The Shadowsinger simply looked at Sepha, his hazel eyes cold and flat, his Siphons pulsing a warning, rhythmic blue. The sheer, ancient power radiating off the Illyrian made the Day Court warrior pale.

"I've got this," Azriel said, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. It was not a question or a request, it was an order and he expected absolute obedience.

Sepha looked at you, then back at the male who looked like he could unmake the world with a thought. He didn't argue. He bowed quickly and vanished from the pit faster than a light-spark.

"That was rude," you muttered, though your heart was thundering against your ribs. "I hope you’re planning on being gentle, Spymaster. I’m a dancer, not a brute."

Azriel’s smirk was gone. He looked at you with the clinical, detached gaze of a general. "If Koschei catches you, he won't be gentle. If you want to survive the dark, you have to learn how to fight when the light fails. Pick up your blade, Y/N."

For the next two hours, you learned exactly why the High Lord of Night trusted Azriel to teach the Valkyries.

There was no flirtation. There was no lingering touch. There was only the relentless, brutal efficiency of a master warrior. Azriel moved like a wraith, his shadows blinding you, his strikes coming from angles you couldn't predict. Every time you tried to use your "Refracted Step," he caught you, sweeping your legs out from under you or pinning you against the marble wall with a force that knocked the breath from your lungs.

"Again," he mumbled every time you hit the sand.

"I’m... tired," you gasped, your muscles screaming, your golden hair plastered to your neck with sweat.

"The enemy doesn't care if you're tired," Azriel replied, his voice cold. He didn't have a single bead of sweat on him. He lunged again, a blur of obsidian leather.

By the time he finally called a halt, you were face-down in the sand, your limbs feeling like lead. You let out a long, pathetic groan into the grit. Your light orbs, looking frantic and dim, hovered inches from your face, poking at your temples and nudging your shoulders as if trying to see if you were still conscious.

"Get up," Azriel said, standing over you. His shadow fell across you, cool and dark.

"No," you muffled into the sand. "I live here now. This is my new home. Leave me to die in peace."

Azriel knelt beside you. He reached down, and for the first time since they’d entered the pit, his touch wasn't a strike. He gripped your shoulder, turning you onto your back. You groaned again, a deep, pained sound that vibrated in your chest.

Azriel’s eyes darkened, the coldness of the trainer melting away to reveal something much hungrier. He leaned over you, his face inches from yours, the scent of his skin—salt and mountain air—filling your senses. Your eyes snapped open in attention at the proximity.

"Get up, Y/N," he whispered, his voice low and roughened by a sudden, sharp edge of desire. "Unless you want me to start massaging those knots out for you. I find I’d very much like to hear you make those lovely sounds again—though I’d prefer they weren't caused by the sand."

Your eyes almost bulged out of their sockets. Your lights, sensing the sudden shift in the air, flared a brilliant, shocked violet. You looked at him—at the dark promise in his gaze, remembering his hard on hours ago and the way his shadows were practically purring against your skin—and felt a jolt of heat that had nothing to do with exercise.

"You shouldn’t say things like that," you breathed, your voice trembling, eyes flashing with lust he recognized immediately.

"And you," Azriel replied, his gaze dropping to your lips before he stood and offered you a scarred, steady hand, "shouldn’t be this gorgeous."

He helped you up and you returned to training, studying positions after lifting weight- Az was there the whole time to guide you properly. Once it was over, it was around afternoon and you joined the table after bath.

The dining room was bathed in the low, honeyed glow of floating candles that smelled of amber and sun-warmed citrus. Helion had been a whirlwind of scandalous stories and expensive wine for the first hour, but as the final plates of honeyed lamb were cleared, he stood with a theatrical yawn.

"I’ve just remembered," the High Lord of Day said, his amber eyes dancing with a wicked, unsubtle light. "I have a very important appointment with a bottle of hundred-year-old nectar and a very willing partner. I trust you two can manage the rest of the evening without me? Try not to kill each other—or tear the terrace down."

With a wink that was practically a nudge to the ribs, Helion vanished in a shimmer of golden light.

The silence that rushed in to fill the void was deafening. You sat across from Azriel, your fingers tracing the rim of your wine glass. You tried to maintain your Spymaster’s mask, but your light orbs were currently dimming and brightening in a rhythmic, nervous pulse that matched the frantic beat of your heart.

Azriel didn't speak. He didn't even move. He simply watched the movement of your fingers, imagining them wrapped around him, stroking before your mouth replaced them, his hazel eyes dark and unreadable, his shadows clinging to him like a living shroud. The tension between you was no longer just political or tactical; it was a physical weight, a tether pulling tighter with every second you spent alone.

"You're very quiet, Spymaster," you finally whispered, your voice a soft friction in the still air. "Is the Day Court’s air still too dry for you?"

"The air is fine," Azriel replied, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

He stood up.

He didn't walk around the table so much as he glided through the space, his movements as silent and lethal as a blade. You swallowed, thighs instinctively clenching together under the table as he stopped directly behind your chair. You could feel yourself getting wet, your toes curled in your shoes and your clit throbbed painfully for him.

You expected him to speak, or perhaps to mock your training performance again. Instead, you felt the heat of him radiating against your back—a wall of obsidian and mountain air.

Azriel reached down. His hand, scarred and large enough to swallow your entire neck, slid slowly around the front of your throat. It wasn't a choke; it was a claim. His thumb rested just beneath your jaw, his palm warm against your pulse point.

With a firm, deliberate pressure, he tilted your head back.

You let out a soft, broken sound as you were forced to look up at him. Because you were seated and he was standing, your head came to rest directly against his stomach. You could feel the hard, flat muscle of his abdomen through his leathers, the heat of him seeping into your scalp.

From this angle, he looked like a god of shadow and stone. His gaze was fixed on your lips, his expression one of raw, barely contained hunger.

“You spend so much time looking for secrets in the light, Y/N," he murmured, his thumb stroking the line of your jaw. "But you’re missing everything happening in the dark."

As you looked at each other, the magic in the room went feral.

Your light sparks, usually so bright and pure, surged toward him. They didn't retreat; they dove into his shadows. They began to dance with the dark tendrils, glowing a frantic, deep violet that practically screamed of your desire.

Azriel’s shadows were even worse. They broke rank, swarming around your face and shoulders. One shadow trailed a phantom "finger" over your lips, while another coiled playfully around your ear, whispering secrets only a Shadowsinger’s mate could hear. They were flirting—shamelessly, dangerously—with your light.

"Your shadows are... misbehaving," you managed to gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as you leaned into the pressure of his hand.

"They aren't misbehaving," Azriel whispered, leaning down until his lips were hovering just inches from yours, his scent of salt and mist drowning you. "They’re finally doing exactly what I’ve wanted to do since the moment I saw you."

His hand tightened just a fraction on your throat, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you exactly who held you. You felt the vibration of his voice through your skull, your own light orbs practically begging for his shadows to consume them.

The air in the room didn't just vibrate; it burned.

Azriel watched the way your throat worked as you swallowed, the pulse beneath his palm thrumming like a trapped bird. Your excitement was a physical thing—a radiant, shimmering heat that called to every dark corner of his soul. The mating bond, no longer a quiet tether, was now a roaring demand.

He didn't ask for permission, at least out loud. He could see the want and consent in your eyes as they practically begged for him. He had to hold back a groan, feeling his body burning as yours was shaking.

Azriel leaned down, his face descending through the swirling chaos of violet sparks and obsidian shadows. When his lips finally met yours upside down, it wasn't the tentative kiss of a scout—it was the total conquest of a general. And the love and desire of a mate you didn’t know.

You let out a sharp, needy gasp against his mouth, your body arching instinctively back against him. The sound—that broken, high-pitched note of surrender—sent a jolt of pure, dark triumph through Azriel and straight down to his already hard cock. He smirked into the kiss, the sharp curve of his lips brushing against yours as he felt your immediate, fierce response.

He had wondered for months if you would taste like the sun. You did. You tasted like summer heat and honeyed wine, and you were reaching for him with a desperation that matched his own.

As your mouth opened under his, Azriel’s free hand came down hard on your shoulder. He didn't just touch you; he pinned you, his heavy, scarred palm grounding you against his abdomen, ensuring you couldn't move, couldn't flee, even if you wanted to. But he knew you wanted anything but. He held you there, a dark anchor for your rising light.

You didn't struggle. Your hands, finally free of your lap, flew upward. One hand fisted into the dark, soft silk of his tunic while the other slid deep into his thick, midnight hair. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the strands, your nails grazing his scalp in a way that made his shadows hiss in a frantic, joyous frenzy. He groaned against your lips, wanting nothing more than to grind against you to relieve himself.

The kiss deepened, turning hungry and jagged. Azriel’s shadows weren't just flirting anymore; they were wrapping around your arms, your waist, pulling your essence into his until the line between Lightdancer and Shadowsinger was nothing but a blur of white and black.

Your breath was coming in short, ragged hitches. The friction of your head against his stomach, the weight of his hand on your throat, and the relentless pressure of his lips were driving you to the edge of a precipice.

"Azriel," you breathed against his mouth, the name a plea.

He pulled back just an inch, his hazel eyes blown wide, his breathing as wrecked as yours. His gaze dropped to the treacherous silk of your gown—the sheer, gold-flecked fabric that felt like a pathetic barrier against the heat of his skin. He looked at the obsidian leather of his own gear, the buckles and siphons that suddenly felt like a suit of iron.

"Too many clothes," he rasped, his voice a low, primal growl that vibrated through your chest. "Way too many clothes between me and what belongs to me."

You didn't argue. You couldn't. You just tightened your grip on his hair and pulled him back down.

The transition from the chair to the quartz dining table was a blur of friction and heat. Azriel’s hands, usually so precise and clinical, were now driven by a five-century-old hunger that had finally found its feast.

He lifted you effortlessly, your silks bunching around your waist as he settled you onto the cool, hard surface of the table. He crowded between your knees, his weight a dark, heavy promise. His shadows had gone entirely feral, weaving a thick, obsidian curtain around you that blocked out the rest of the room, leaving only the scent of salt, mist, and the sun-drenched skin of his mate.

His mouth was back on yours, deeper and more possessive than before. One of his hands slid up the column of your throat, holding you steady, while the other moved to the shoulder of your gown. His fingers hooked into the delicate gold-and-cream silk, the fabric straining against the lethal strength of an Illyrian warrior. He didn’t just want you; he wanted the barriers gone.

The heavy oak doors of the dining hall swung open with a theatrical flourish.

"Y/N! My dearest light! I simply must have your urgent opinion on the border reports from the—" Helion stopped mid-sentence, his voice booming through the vaulted room. He didn't look surprised. In fact, he looked like a man who had timed his entrance to the exact second for maximum chaos. He definitely had planned this through.

Azriel didn't stop.

He didn't even flinch. He heard the footsteps, he smelled Helion’s distinct scent of cedar and expensive wine, but he simply didn't care. The mating bond was a roar in his ears, drowned out only by the sound of your ragged breathing. He tilted your head further back, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your jawline, his hand tightening on the silk of your bodice.

You, however, was still the Spymaster of the Day Court. The sound of your High Lord’s voice pierced through the golden haze of your desire.

"Azriel," you gasped, your hands—which had been frantically unbuckling his leathers—now shifting to his chest. You tried to push against the solid wall of his muscle, but it was like trying to move a mountain. "Azriel, stop... Helion is... he’s right there."

Your resistance was weak, betrayed by the way your legs were still locked firmly around his waist and the way your light orbs were still humming a deep, satisfied violet against his shadows.

Azriel finally paused, his forehead resting against your collarbone, his breathing heavy and scorched. He didn't pull away; he just stayed there, his shadows lashing out toward the High Lord in a silent, jagged warning to get out.

Helion leaned against a marble pillar, crossing his arms over his bare, golden chest. He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"I don't mean to interrupt the... tactical debrief," Helion said, his voice dripping with mock-innocence. "But the library archives won't sort themselves, and my Lightdancer has a very busy schedule of avoiding my training sessions."

He cleared his throat—a loud, pointed sound that echoed off the quartz.

Azriel finally pulled back. He didn't scramble; he didn't look embarrassed. He slowly straightened his spine, his hands lingering on your waist for a beat too long before he turned his head to look at Helion.

The look Azriel leveled at the High Lord of Day was pure, unadulterated murder. His hazel eyes were dark with a predatory heat, and his Siphons were pulsing a violent, warning blue.

"She is busy, Helion," Azriel rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through a battlefield.

"I can see that," Helion replied, his amber eyes flicking to you, who were currently trying to smooth your hair and your gown simultaneously, your face a shade of red that rivaled a Day Court sunset. "Though it looks like she’s being quite thoroughly occupied. If you’re finished marking your territory, Spymaster, I actually do have a question about the Koschei vellum."

You slid off the table, legs a bit wobbly, your light sparks hiding behind you as you glared at your High Lord. "You are the most annoying male in the Seven Courts," you hissed.

"And you," Helion winked, pushing off the pillar and heading toward the door, "are clearly in very capable hands. Carry on. I'll be in the solar. Do try not to break the quartz—it’s an antique."

As Helion’s laughter faded down the hall, the silence returned, now twice as heavy and ten times as hot. Azriel turned back to you, his shadows already reaching for you again.

"Where were we?" he whispered.

The echoes of Helion’s laughter hadn't even faded before Azriel was moving again. The stoic, cold Shadow-Lord was gone again, replaced by a male whose hazel eyes were burning with a very specific, playful intent.

He didn't use his shadows this time. He wanted the feel of you against his skin.

"The quartz is still warm, Y/N," Azriel murmured, his voice a low, melodic lure. He reached out, his large, scarred hand closing on empty air as you performed a graceful, shimmering pirouette away from him. "And I believe we were interrupted right before the most interesting part of the debrief."

You let out a bright, melodic giggle, your light sparks doing a frantic, joyful loop-de-loop around your head. You tucked a stray golden lock behind your ear, your violet eyes dancing with mischief.

"Duty calls, Spymaster!" You teased, backing away toward the arched exit. "If I don't handle this 'matter' with the archives, Helion will likely use it as an excuse to burst in on us again. And I think my heart—and your patience—can only handle one theatrical entrance per day."

Azriel smirked, a real, devastatingly handsome expression that made your knees weak. He lunged forward, his movements a blur of obsidian leather. He was fast, but you were a Lightdancer, your silhouettes a swirl of shadow tango at the window. Just as his fingers grazed the silk of your waist, you flickered—using a micro-burst of your magic to slide a foot to the left, just out of his reach.

"Missed," you sang out, laughter echoing off the marble.

"I am a patient male, Y/N," Azriel replied, his shadows purring as he tried again, this time feinting left and reaching right. He almost caught your arm, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your wrist, but you ducked under his wing with a squeal of delight, your silks fluttering like a butterfly’s wings.

"You’re getting slow, Shadowsinger!" You called from the safety of the doorway. "Perhaps all that brooding has dulled your reflexes."

Azriel stopped, his chest heaving slightly, not from exertion, but from the sheer, intoxicating joy of the game. He stood in the center of the sun-drenched hall, his Siphons pulsing a soft, contented blue.

He watched you—truly watched you. You were flushed, radiant, and completely full of life. You were the sun he hadn't known he was allowed to touch.

He held up his hands in a gesture of mock-surrender, his shadows settling back onto his shoulders in a calm, silky drape.

"Fine," he conceded, his voice rich with affection. "Go. Handle your archives. But know this, Lightdancer..." He took a slow step forward, his gaze locking onto yours with a promise that made your cheeks flush. "When you return, there won't be enough reports in all of the Day Court to keep me from getting you back on that table."

You blew him a kiss, a single spark of pure white light drifting across the room to boop him right on the nose before you vanished into the hallway, your giggles trailing behind you like a scent of jasmine.

Azriel stood alone in the dining hall for a long moment. He didn't look for work. He didn't look for shadows. He simply stood in the light, a genuine, soaring smile breaking across his face—the kind of smile that changed the very shape of his soul.

He had a mate. And for the first time in five hundred years, the Spymaster of Night was perfectly happy to wait for the morning.

tag list: @breathingstarlight @wingedsandwichdefendor @dailydoseofv @maldepuerco @wicckkedbitchhh @deeshag @jchameleon @oikawasblueearbud @corruptedcruiser @nesiris21

[tunetales]

Moments (Azriel x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: A series of moments with Azriel.

Authors Note: A continuation of my 'Moments' series, not in any particular, and based around a pre-established relationship with The Shadowsinger himself. Ugh I dream of this man constantly and I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

Morning in Velaris arrives gently.

Golden light spills across tangled sheets, warm against bare skin. The air smells faintly of cedar and night-blooming jasmine drifting in through the cracked balcony doors.

You’re roused from your sleep by a touch, slow and careful. Fingers move along your back, feather-light, tracing paths that aren’t meant to wake you.

You don’t stir at first.

He maps you like he’s reading a story written by raised skin. The thin line near your shoulder blade. The jagged one lower down. The faint silvery stretch of magic-burned flesh along your ribs.

His thumb pauses over that one.

You wake fully when his fingers stop.

“…Az?” Your voice thick with sleep.

He stills, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You hum softly and turn your head on your pillow to face him, hair falling over your cheek. “What are you doing?”

There’s a quiet beat.

“Admiring,” he says.

You blink at him.

He’s propped up on one elbow beside you, dark curls loose around his face, the skin of his naked chest golden, tattoos glinting slightly in the early sunlight, wings relaxed behind him. In the soft morning light the usual sharpness of him is gentle. Thoughtful.

“You have a lot of scars,” he comments, almost accusingly.

You snort into the pillow. “So do you.”

He ignores your comment and traces another scar near your shoulder blade. His brows furrow slightly — he looks suspiciously like he’s sulking.

“I should have been there for this one.”

“Azriel,” you gently warn.

He presses his lips together but continues mapping you carefully with his fingers.

"You're doing it again,” you comment after a moment of silence.

"What?"

"The brooding."

"I do not brood."

You prop yourself up on your elbow so you're facing him properly, lovingly brushing his hair back from his forehead, before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his lips which he eagerly welcomes.

"Stop it," you mumble against his lips.

"I'm not doing anything," he protests, chasing your lips as you pull away and lie back down.

Your mouth twitches.

"I was just wish I could have been there," he mutters.

You sigh softly, reaching up to coax him down to lie beside you.

"For which one?"

His brow furrows.

"All of them."

You can't help the laugh that escapes.

Azriel looks mildly offended.

"It's not funny."

"It is a little funny."

He sits up again slightly, wings shifting behind him in irritation. "You have scars from battles, interrogations, gods know what else. Half of them happened before I even met you."

"Exactly," you say patiently.

"And I wasn't there to keep you safe.”

You reach over and poke his chest.

"And whose fault is that?"

He blinks. "What?"

"Well, you should've found me sooner."

Azriel stares at you like he's trying to decide whether you're being serious.

You grin.

"I'm sure the Mother would've rearranged fate if you'd just asked nicely."

Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches at your sarcasm.

But his hand drifts back to your ribs again.

"I still don't like it," he says quietly. "Knowing you were hurt."

Your heart softens immediately.

You shift closer across the mattress until you're practically draped over him.

"Well," you say thoughtfully, "good thing you're here now."

His hand settles automatically at your waist.

"That doesn't erase the rest of it."

You lean down and press a kiss to the scar along his collarbone.

His breath catches.

"What about yours?" You murmur, brushing your lips along the mark. "Where was I when you got this one?"

He huffs softly. "That's different."

"It's not."

You press another kiss to the edge of the scar, then another beside it.

Azriel's wings shift restfully.

"I'm serious," he says weakly, arching his neck to give you further access.

"So am I."

You slide fully onto him now, resting your weight across his chest, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck.

"If you keep sulking about my scars," you warn gently, "I'm going to have to distract you."

His brows lift.

"Oh?"

You nod solemnly.

"With affection."

"How terrifying."

You smile sweetly and immediately start peppering kisses to his face.

His cheek. His jaw. His eyebrow. The bridge of his nose.

Azriel startles when you press an exaggerated kiss right on the centre of his forehead with a loud smack.

"What are you doing?" He asks, trying not to laugh.

"Smothering you with love."

"Is that what this is?"

"Yes."

You kiss the corner of his mouth.

"You're ridiculous," he murmurs as you continue your assault.

"You love me."

"That's unrelated."

You gasp dramatically and press another kiss to his lips.

Azriel finally gives up resisting and pulls you closer, one arm tightening around your back, whilst the other reaches up to tangle loosely through your hair.

"No more brooding allowed," you inform him.

He arches a brow. "But-"

"You're only allowed to admire how impressive I am."

His eyes soften.

"I already do."

"Good boy," you teasingly praise, nipping at his chin.

His eyes darken playfully and your laugh is smothered as he pulls you down for a hard kiss.

When he finally settles back against the pillows, he keeps you tucked close against his chest, wings curling around you both like a shield.

You feel his fingers drift across your scars once more.

But this time there's no brooding in it.

Only quiet devotion.

Morning sunlight spills softly through the tall windows of the River House bedroom, painting warm gold across tangled sheets.

You're only half-awake.

Azriel is very much not asleep.

He's propped above you, dark hair falling forward as he kisses you slowly along your jaw, clearly in no hurry whatsoever. One of your hands is tangled in his hair while the other wanders up and down his chiseled back.

"You realise," you murmur sleepily, "we're supposed to be up soon."

Azriel hums against your neck, entirely unconcerned.

"Mm. Eventually."

Your fingers trace lazily along his shoulders and his wings shift slightly behind him as you scratch just at the base of the membrane, betraying just how much he's enjoying the moment.

The soft groan muffled against your neck also is very telling.

One his hands slowly moves to cup your thigh, lifting it to hook over his hip, giving him space to press himself hard against you.

Your breath hitches.

Then—

One of his shadows zips across the room like it's been struck by lightning.

Azriel freezes.

You blink. "What-"

The shadow hovers above you both, seemingly agitated.

Azriel's eyes widen.

"Door," he whispers.

Your brain barely has time to process that before-

BANG.

The bedroom door flies open.

"Uncle Az! Auntie!"

Nyx barrels into the room like a tiny comet of excitement.

Azriel moves faster than you've ever seen him move.

One second he's leaning over you, nestled between your thighs, the next he's upright with lightning reflexes, dragging the blankets up to your shoulders while his shadows yank the loose curtain of the bed closed just enough to hide how tangled you both were moments ago.

Thank goodness you were both somewhat still clothed.

Nyx doesn't notice a thing.

He's too busy launching himself onto the mattress.

"You're here!"

The bed bounces violently as the small Illyrian lands squarely between you.

Azriel exhales slowly through his nose.

You stay suspiciously tucked under the blankets and Azriel very deliberately shifts a pillow across his lap.

"Good morning Nyx," you greet.

Nyx beams at both of you.

"I woke up early and Mama said you were staying here and I wanted pancakes and Uncle Cass said he can't make them because he burns everything and-"

He finally pauses for breath.

Then he squints at Azriel.

"Why is your hair so messy?"

You bite your lip so hard it almost hurts.

Azriel doesn't even blink.

"I was sleeping."

Nyx considers this.

Then he turns to you.

"Auntie, why are you so red?"

You immediately pull the covers up to just below your eyes, your snickers of amusement becoming muffled. "It's very warm in here, isn't it Az?"

Azriel clears his throat and subtly kicks you from under the blankets.

Nyx nods seriously like this is a perfectly understandable explanation.

Then he flops backward dramatically between you both.

"Are you getting up now? Mama says breakfast is soon but Uncle Cass said if we get there first we can steal the syrup."

Azriel rubs a hand over his face.

He looks...resigned.

"Uncle Az! Carry me to breakfast!" Nyx demands.

Azriel blinks down at him.

"You burst into our room at dawn and now you want transportation?"

"Yes."

You laugh helplessly as Azriel sighs the long suffering sigh of a male, whose morning was rudely interrupted, and has completely lost control of the situation.

As Nyx continues his demands, Azriel clears his throat and shifts again and you know instantly why he's hesitated in scooping the boy up.

"Nyxie, let me carry you to breakfast," you say, drawing his attention away from the stiff male as you stand from the bed. "I'm stronger than Uncle Az anyway."

Nyx laughs in delight and immediately throws himself at you, wrapping his little arms around your neck triumphantly.

You smirk over the top of Nyx's head, shooting him a wink.

"We'll finish this later," you mouth to him.

Azriel eyes darken slightly before he schools his expression.

"I'm holding you to that," he murmurs back.

"What did you say Uncle Az?" Nyx asks.

"I said I can't wait for pancakes," he says firmly.

"Yes, I can't wait for pancakes either," you smirk.

Rhysand's office in the River House feels too small.

Too quiet.

Too wrong.

Azriel stands in the centre of the room like a storm barely held together. His shadows are restless, sliding along the walls and ceiling, gathering at the door like they're trying to claw their way out.

"I'm going back."

Across from him, Rhys doesn't move from behind his desk.

"No."

The word lands like a punch.

Azriel's wings twitch sharply. "She's still there."

Cassian exhales heavily from where he leans against the wall. "Az-"

"She must still in Autumn," Azriel snaps. "Beron's soldiers pinned us down and we had to split. I don't know if she made it out. I don't know if they-"

His voice cuts off.

Because the alternative sits like poison in his chest.

Rhys watches him carefully.

"You know why we were there," Rhys says calmly. "If Beron realises we were gathering intel from Eris, the consequences will be catastrophic."

Azriel's jaw tightens. "I don't care."

Cassian straightens immediately, sensing the mounting tension.

"She's my mate."

The room goes very still.

Rhys's voice drops, quieter now.

"And she's my friend. But we have to give her more time."

Azriel's shadows lash violently.

"I will not sit here while she might be captured or injured."

Rhys's power flickers in the air.

"You will," he says, voice suddenly edged with the weight of a High Lord's command.

Azriel goes ridged.

The magic of the order settles around his bones like chains.

His fists clench.

Cassian mutters under his breath, "Shit."

Azriel's voice comes out hoarse. "You're ordering me not to go."

"Yes. You cannot just go storming back and put this fragile alliance at risk."

"What would you do if it was Feyre?"

Rhys recoiled as if Azriel had slapped him, his shoulders tensing as he slowly got to his feet, hands spread on his desk as if it pained him.

"I would trust in her abilities. Trust in the plan."

"Bullshit."

"Azriel—" Rhys warned.

"What if she's—“

The study doors burst open.

Everyone turns.

You stumble through the doorway, breathing hard, leaves tangled in your hair and travel dust covering your leathers.

For a split second, no one moves.

Azriel stares at you like he's seeing a ghost.

Then the bond slams into him.

Alive. Warm.

You're here.

His restraint shatters.

He crosses the room in a blur of shadows.

The next thing you know, you're lifted clean off your feet as Azriel wraps both arms around you, pulling you against his chest with bone-crushing force.

You gasp as the air leaves your lungs.

"Az—"

His wings flare wide around you both, shielding you from the world.

For a moment he doesn't speak.

He can't.

So he just holds you.

Like if he loosens his grip you might disappear again.

Your arms slide around his neck, clinging just as tightly.

"I'm okay," you whisper breathlessly.

His face presses into your hair.

"You disappeared," he murmurs roughly. "You didn't meet me at the rendezvous point."

You pull back slightly to look at him.

"It took me longer than I thought to get there. Too many eyes. I had to double back and by the time I got there, you had already gone."

Azriel swallows harshly - he should've waited longer for you. He should've-

"Don't do that," you murmur gently, seeing his thoughts flash across his eyes. "There was nothing you could've done differently."

His hands move immediately - checking your shoulders, your arms, your face, like he's cataloguing every piece of you.

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

"Followed?"

"No one saw me."

Cassian lets out a long breath from across the room. "Mother above."

Rhys leans back against his desk, relief flickering through his expression even as he masks it with dry composure.

"Perfect timing," he says lightly.

You glance at him, confused. "Timing?"

Cassian snorts. "You walked in right as Az here was about to ignore a High Lord's order and march back into Autumn by himself."

You look to him, shocked. He doesn't even deny it.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you close again and pressing his forehead against yours like he's grounding himself.

"You scared me," he mutters.

Your heart squeezes at the rawness in his voice.

"I'm here," you whisper.

Your hand slides up to cradle his cheek.

The bond hums warmly between you.

Alive. Safe.

Azriel exhales slowly, the tension finally draining from his shoulders.

Behind you, Cassian mutters, "Alright, that's enough of the emotional reunion, some of us almost died tonight."

You glance over Azriel's shoulder and grin faintly.

"Missed you too."

Azriel doesn't let you go for the rest of the night.

Not even a little bit.

Not that you're complaining.

The kitchen is quiet in the late afternoon.

Sunlight spills across the marble counters, warm and golden, catching on the edges of the plates and glassware as you move around barefoot as you prepare dinner.

You're half-focused on the open recipe book on the counter as you whisk a dressing in a glass bowl.

You're not really paying attention to what you're doing, trying to calculate how much longer the chicken needed in the oven.

Which is exactly why-

The glass slips.

It shatters against the floor with a sharp crack.

You flinch. "Oh-"

You step back instinctively.

And immediately-

"Ah-!"

Pain shoots up your foot, sharp and sudden enough to steal your breath. You freeze, lifting your foot slightly as a sting radiates through the sole. You eye the splinters of glass now covering the floor around you.

"...That's not good," you mutter.

A shadow appears at your ankle almost instantly.

Then another.

They coil there, hovering, assessing, recoiling as small splatters of blood drips onto the floor.

A heartbeat later-

Azriel is in the doorway.

He takes in the scene in one sweep: shattered glass, your uneven stance, the way you're holding your foot just off the floor.

His expression flattens.

"What did you do?"

You grimace. "I dropped my favourite mixing bowl."

He walks toward you, slow and deliberate.

His shadows are already moving, brushing lightly over your foot before he even reaches you.

Then his gaze sharpens as he notes the blood.

"There's glass in it."

You wince. "I gathered that, yes."

Azriel doesn't respond.

He just bends and, without warning, scoops you up into his arms.

You let out a small yelp. "Az-!"

"Stop moving," he says calmly, already turning toward the counter.

"I wasn't-"

"You were about to try and walk and you would've got more glass in your foot."

He sets you down on the counter with tender gentleness, one hand braced at your hip to steady you.

"Stay."

You give him a look. "I'm not a dog."

"Stay," he repeats, with a hint of a smirk.

He resists patting your head, knowing it would only get him a slap.

You huff but don't argue.

Azriel crouches in front of you, lifting your injured foot carefully into his hand.

His touch is steady. Controlled.

But you can feel the tension in him.

"Let me see."

You shift slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at the cut.

"Hold still," he murmurs.

"I am-"

His shadows slide over your ankle then, cool and soft, curling just firmly enough to keep your foot from twitching.

You blink.

"...Did you just restrain me?"

"Wouldn't be the first time."

You can't help the blush that heats your cheeks as you try not to smile.

Azriel tilts your foot slightly, his thumb brushing just below the injury as he inspects it.

A small shard of glass glints in the light.

His jaw tightens.

"Don't move."

"I won't.'"

"Don't talk either."

"That seems excessive."

His gaze flicks up to yours.

You press your lips together.

Satisfied, he flicks his fingers and a small tendril of shadow curls towards it.

"This may hurt," he murmurs.

He works carefully. Slowly.

The shadow catches the edge of the glass, pulling gently.

A sharp sting-

You flinch instinctively.

The shadows curled around your foot tighten instantly, steadying you.

"I've got you, baby”, Azriel murmurs, voice softer now.

You focus on him instead of the pain - the way his brows are drawn in concentration, the precision in every movement, how handsome he looks with his eyebrows furrowed like that.

Then-

The pressure releases.

He pulls the shard free.

You exhale. "Oh thank the Mother."

Azriel sets the glass aside, immediately reaching for a cloth to clean the wound.

"There."

His hands linger for a moment longer than necessary.

Then he looks up at you.

"Next time," he says, "you call me before you try to fight broken glass barefoot."

You tilt your head. "I think I won."

He arches a brow.

"You impaled yourself."

"Minor detail."

His mouth twitches despite himself.

Carefully, he lowers your foot, but keeps one hand at your ankle.

His thumb rubs your skin tenderly.

"Don't put weight on it yet."

"Yes, Shadowsinger."

He narrows his eyes slightly at your tone.

You grin.

A second later, he straightens - and before you can react, he lifts you again.

You laugh. "Azriel-"

"You're not walking."

"I can hop."

"You're not hopping either."

You loop your arms around his neck.

"So bossy."

"Overprotective," he corrects.

His shadows curl smugly around you both as he carries you out of the kitchen.

And this time, you don't argue at all.

It started in the morning.

"What are you doing?"

You pause as you pull the covers back, preparing to swing your legs out of bed.

"...Getting ready."

"Why?"

"...I'm coming to training with you."

Azriel doesn't even look up from strapping the last buckles of his leathers into place. "You can't."

You blink. "Why?"

"I'm training with just Rhys and Cassian today."

You cross your arms. "So?"

He finally glances at you. And makes a fatal mistake.

"You'll distract me too much if you come."

You stare at him, slowly narrowing your eyes.

"I'll distract you?"

Azriel hums in agreement and unfortunately, he doesn't notice the shift or the way your face drops slightly.

He just leans down, presses a quick, absent-minded kiss to your forehead - like the conversation is completely over - and heads for the door.

"Go back to bed, baby. I'll see you later," he says.

And he leaves.

You sit there. Forehead still warm. Eyes narrowing slowly.

Fine.

-

He doesn't realise anything is wrong.

Not when he comes back hours later, still flushed and sweaty from training and in an annoyingly good mood from managing to put both Cassian and Rhys on their backs in the training ring.

He finds you in the library.

"Hey," he says easily, already leaning down for a kiss.

You turn your head.

His lips land on your cheek.

Azriel pauses, but doesn't think much of it.

"What are you reading?"

You don't look up from your book. "It's for Nesta's bookclub. You know, girl things."

He frowns slightly, noting your tone. His suspicion flickers, but it doesn't fully land.

-

His suspicion starts to raise however, in the kitchen.

He corners you lightly, one hand braced on the counter, the other brushing your waist as he leans in.

You duck under his arm.

"Careful," you saw sweetly. "You wouldn't want to distract me whilst I'm making lunch, would you?"

Azriel freezes.

"...What?"

You pour yourself a drink like nothing happened.

He stares at you.

Oh.

Oh no.

Realisation begins to dawn.

-

By dinner, he's very aware that something’s wrong.

You're perfectly pleasant.

Chatty. Relaxed. Smiling.

You allow his hand to rest on your thigh.

To anyone watching the two of you, you seemed content and happy.

Just—

You're not kissing him.

At all.

Every attempt is expertly dodged.

Sensing his growing distress, his shadows try to help at one point.

You gently pat them away.

Azriel pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning closer and lowering his voice.

"You're upset."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not," you repeat, sipping your drink.

He leans closer. "This is about this morning."

You smile brightly. "What about this morning?"

He exhales slowly.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Like what?"

"You know what."

You tilt your head. "No I don't think I do."

Cassian snorts into his drink across from you both. "Did Az say something that's got him into trouble?"

Azriel shoots him a look.

But you’re already engaged in another conversation with Feyre.

Azriel huffs impatiently.

-

By the time you're getting into bed, Azriel is done.

You slip under the covers like everything is perfectly normal.

He stands at the edge of the bed, staring at you.

"You haven't kissed me all day."

You fluff your pillow. "Have I not?"

"No."

"That's unfortunate."

"For me," he says.

You finally look at him, expression innocent.

"Is it?"

Azriel exhales, running a hand through his hair.

"I said you'd distract me because I can't focus when you're there. Not because you're incapable of behaving or that I didn't want you there with me."

You watch him quietly.

He softens slightly. "I'm always aware when you're close by. I love it, maybe a little too much.”

"I didn't realise I upset you," he admits.

That takes a tiny bit of the wind out of your sails.

"...You didn't, well not really."

"Then why haven't you kissed me all day?" He practically whines.

You sigh dramatically. "You kissed my forehead like I was dismissed."

His brows lift. "I always kiss your forehead."

"Not like that."

He considers it, thinking back to how he cut you off with the kiss before leaving.

He steps closer, bracing a hand on the mattress beside you.

"...Can I fix it?" He asks quietly.

You hesitate.

Just for a second, as you appear to consider his request. You tap on your chin in playful thought.

Truthfully, not kissing your mate had been just as torturous for you too.

So—

You grab the back of his neck and pull him down into a kiss.

Hard.

You pour everything into it that you'd had to hold back all day.

Azriel makes a soft, startled sound before immediately kissing you back, one hand coming to your jaw, the other bracing himself as he leans into it fully.

Relief hits him instantly.

When you finally pull back, he's looking at you like the world has righted itself.

"There you are," he murmurs.

You try to look unimpressed.

It fails.

"Don't be smug,” you warn.

"I'm not smug."

"You're smiling."

"I'm relieved."

You huff, but he's already leaning in again, slower this time, softer, like he's making up for every missed moment.

You let him.

Of course you do.

A second later he climbs into bed, pulling you against him with quiet insistence.

His wings shift around you both.

"You're not allowed to do that again," he mutters into your hair.

"Do what?"

"Refuse to kiss me."

You smile against his chest.

"I’ll just have to come up with other ways to punish you then, next time.”

You can practically hear Azriel’s smile.

“We could always try that thing with my shadows again…“

“Az—!”.

[jjlevin]

This is like a collection of the most incredible one-shots😍

[queenofslowburn]

Stubborn Hearts & Coffee Debts | Part 2 of 2

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x reader

Summary: Working with him as his hairstylist on set had been a blast. He showed up with coffee, you showed up with sass. Now, months after wrap, the feelings you promised yourself would fade are still very much in the room. And you have no idea how to proceed from here. Luckily, he does.

A/N: this fall weather makes me crave fluff, okay? Tooth rotting, cute little, banterful fluff with a lot of pining, heartache and of course a happy ending, because i am that bitch such a hopeless romantic. This is a two part one shot.

wc part 1: 4.7k

wc part 2: 3k

Part 1 | Part 2

My Pedro-Character-Masterlist

You stare at your phone for at least an hour. Maybe more. You just don’t… know. The glow of the screen burns faintly into your retinas, a ghost image every time you blink. The clock in the corner keeps moving forward, proof that this is real time, that you haven’t slipped into some absurd daydream where everything suddenly makes sense again.

You’ve decided a few things in that hour.

First: this is Pedro. Obviously. The neck massages. The panic about sounding creepy. The nervous apology tripled down into oblivion. And the P.? Yeah. It’s him.

Second: this isn’t a cruel joke. He was a joker, sure - always throwing in something unexpected, a line that landed somewhere between charm and chaos - but cruel? Never. Not once.

And lastly: you are not dreaming. This is your actual, godforsaken reality. And this reality? It overwhelms the fuck out of you.

You exhale slowly, realizing your breathing has at least calmed down. No more hiccup sobs, no more uneven gasps that shake your chest. Your tears have dried somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.

You read his message again. And again. And again.

You know every word by now - every self-conscious pause, every little plea in those P.S. lines. Maybe you even typed out a few replies - half drafts, ghost sentences - before deleting them, because what even is the right thing to say? What’s his intention here? A social check-in? A nostalgic ping to make sure you’re still alive? Maybe he has some new project and thought, hey, she’d be perfect for it?

But that’d be a weird way to start the conversation, wouldn’t it?

Then again, he was a little weirdo. That’s what made him, well… him.

You two had bonded over exactly that - being oddballs orbiting a world that didn’t quite know what to do with people who felt too much, joked too fast, cared too hard. That strange comfort of recognizing your brand of weird in someone else.

But ignoring this? That’s not an option. Not answering would be the death of you. The what if would chew at your brain until dawn.

So you have to. You just… have to.

Your thumbs hover above the keyboard, frozen like you’re about to trigger a bomb.

Then, finally, you type:

Sorry, have already forwarded that number to anyone I know and their grandmas. Text me the weirdest messages you get!

P.S.: I have not started my business for excellent massages yet.

P.P.S.: not creepy. Just mildly unhinged.

You hit send before you can think twice.

A squeal escapes you - an actual, audible, feral noise - and you slap a hand over your mouth in pure mortification. Oh god. You’d pay money to unhear yourself. You flop backward, phone still in hand, eyes squeezed shut like that could undo it.

You don’t even get to decide whether your text hit the right balance of lighthearted and intrigued - because your screen lights up again. Another message.

Then another.

Help, have already received 53 feet pics, three marriage proposals and one ask if I have the number of Oscar Isaac.

You laugh. It bursts out of you, wet and hoarse but real. Before the sound fades, another notification hits.

Sorry for the nightly disturbance. Just wanted to reach out. How are you doing? How was Spain? You’re back in L.A. now, right?

And that - that one does you in.

Because he knows. Still. Three months later. Remembers where you went, what you said you’d do, the timeline you’d casually mentioned. And something in your chest twists hard enough to sting. New tears threaten again and you actually groan at yourself.

“Emotional little bitch,” you mutter.

You type back, fast enough to outrun the ache:

I am great. Just collapsed on my bed and plan not to move for the next 48 hours. Spain was… beautiful, hectic, stressful, fantastic. How’s your life going? Full schedule, I guess?

You stare at the screen, sniffling a little laugh. It’s ridiculous. Absurd, even. You’re texting with him. As if nothing ever happened. As if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. Your heart does cartwheels.

Spain just is that girl, right? Schedule’s full as usual, but I’ll manage. And… you sure about those 48 hours? Because I found a fantastic matcha place I think you’re going to love.

You blink. Reread. Reread again.

That cannot mean what you think it means. Right? He’ll just send you the address. That’s what people do. Normal people. He’s being polite, sharing a tip, right?

You try to focus, to stop the trembling in your hands. Okay. Think. Careful but not cold. Curious but not desperate.

You type:

You had my curiosity, but now you have my attention! Great matcha? Here in L.A.? I think you have to spill the secret.

You send it, immediately doubt every word, then reread it again to reassure yourself it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s totally fine.

It’s playful, open, neutral. No implication. No pressure.

The minutes drag. The silence stretches, taut like a wire.

What’s he doing now? Typing a whole essay? Choosing his words carefully? Maybe he’s asleep already. Maybe the message was a fluke, a late-night impulse he’ll regret by morning.

You roll onto your side, staring at the phone like it might whisper the truth if you look hard enough. Your pulse is ridiculous, the kind that belongs in a chase scene, not your quiet bedroom.

Then the ping. Sharp, immediate. You nearly drop the phone, fumbling as you sit up straighter, spine tense like posture equals readiness.

How about I show you instead?

Your breath catches halfway out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You cannot believe it. You CANNOT believe it.

You are actually sitting in an actual café - two iced matcha lattes sweating gently on the wooden table in front of you - waiting for him.

Your knee bounces under the table, and you try to steady it by crossing your legs, but that only makes the motion shift upward, jittering through your chest instead. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes flicking around the café like you’re trying to memorize it - or distract yourself.

It’s a small place, tucked just off a quieter street in Silver Lake. The kind of spot that smells faintly of roasted beans and eucalyptus candles, where every table has a little glass jar of sugar and a single stem in a vase - daisies, mostly, with the occasional dried sprig of lavender. Sunlight filters through wide windows, catching the steam off mugs and the soft hum of a playlist that probably has an entire fanbase on Spotify. Conversations buzz low around you, gentle and warm.

After you had pinched yourself approximately one thousand times to confirm that yes, he really did write that message, you had replied - as cool as humanly possible. You’d typed something breezy and casual like, “Sure, sounds fun, I can manage that.” He had followed up with a handful of details: the café name, the time, and one particular request - sit inside, at a table toward the back. Less visible from the street.

You had immediately understood. Of course. The paparazzi.

It wasn’t like A-listers couldn’t grab coffee in L.A. without chaos, but still - the chance was always there, lurking in the periphery. And if you’d learned anything from the months you’d worked near him, it was that he didn’t crave the circus. He liked quiet, safe corners of the world. So, you take the adjustment gladly, trading the golden California sunlight for the café’s cozy amber lighting and a little privacy.

Still, your gaze darts to the door every time it opens.

He’d said he would show up a little later. Standard procedure - not walking in together, minimizing attention. You know that. You understand that.

And yet… a small, traitorous voice in your head keeps whispering that maybe he won’t come. That maybe it was polite impulse texting. That maybe you misread everything.

You silence it.

Even if this is just a friendly catch-up - even if it’s nothing - it’s still him. The fact that Pedro Pascal asked to meet you, to grab matcha, to see you again after months, is enough to make your pulse sprint.

You keep telling yourself not to call it a date. It’s not a date. No one said the word date. No asking out happened, no “ride into the sunset” declarations. This could very well be a social check-in, a how have you been, a good to see you again.

Nothing more.

And yet  - 

Your heart rate explodes the second the door opens and you see him.

It takes a double take, sure, because he’s dressed like every effort went into not looking like himself. Black baseball cap. Plain navy hoodie. Jeans that are definitely too soft and too worn to be designer. Sunglasses - of course. Still, it’s him. Even without the grin, you’d recognize the way he moves - unhurried, loose, as if he’s learned how to take up space without ever demanding it.

You almost raise a hand to wave him over - but stop mid-motion, halfway up. What if he doesn’t want the attention? What if someone does notice him? So instead, you wait.

And then he spots you.

The moment feels suspended, like film slowing down. He tilts his head slightly, lifts his glasses just enough to show his eyes, and that grin - that stupid, heart-crushing, butterfly-summoning grin - spreads across his face.

Oh, you’re done for.

You stand awkwardly, halfway between composure and complete meltdown, and before you can say anything, he’s already crossing the café. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t second-guess - just wraps you into a hug that feels like a warm drink after a freezing walk home. His arm settles firm around your back, and your brain blanks out for a full two seconds.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low and familiar, all warmth and gravel. It ripples through you like static. Then he leans back, glancing at the table. “Oh no, you already ordered? I would’ve.”

You laugh a little, trying to look casual even though your entire nervous system is in meltdown mode. You let go - reluctantly - and gesture for him to sit.

“I have to get out of my coffee debt with you, remember?” you say, smiling.

He laughs, that quiet kind of laugh that lights up his eyes. “How could I not? Biggest scam of the century.”

You both sit, and somehow the small table feels even smaller now. His arm brushes yours as he settles in, and you swear your pulse hits an entirely new BPM record. But he doesn’t seem to notice - or maybe he does, and chooses kindness by pretending not to.

He nods at your cup. “So? What’s the verdict?”

You take a deliberate sip, savoring the earthy sweetness. “Not traditional ceremonial,” you tease, “but, you know… closest we can come.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Still the expert, huh?”

You shrug, playful. “Someone has to keep the standards high.”

The air between you shifts, warm and steady. Slowly, your heart rate eases - not completely, never completely, but enough that you can breathe without counting your exhales. Conversation slides easily into place, soft and natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm neither of you lost.

He asks about Spain, about the trip, and you tell him the funny bits - the chaotic moments, the beauty, the exhaustion. He listens. Really listens. His gaze flicks to your hands when you gesture, to your face when you laugh. He shares little stories too - set anecdotes, random things about travel, the way he accidentally ordered eight espressi in Italy once because he forgot the plural.

It’s easy. Disarmingly easy.

And while you try to play it cool - sipping your drink, tucking hair behind your ear again, pretending you’re not melting from proximity - there’s one persistent thought you can’t shake.

How on earth are you ever going to recover from this crush now?

Because this - this quiet laughter, his sleeve brushing yours, the way his knee nearly touches yours under the table - this feels dangerously like something you’ll never stop replaying once it’s over.

And when he looks at you again, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re thinking but will never call you out on it - yeah. You’re doomed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You are certain by now: your plane back from Spain must have crashed. There’s simply no other explanation. You must have died and gone to some cinematic, too-good-to-be-true afterlife, because -

WHAT. THE. HELL.

After your cozy café reunion and the easy flow of conversation, Pedro had suggested a walk. A little park nearby, he’d said, as if it was the most casual thing in the world. And of course, you said yes. What were you going to do, say no to that face?

It started off perfectly ordinary - a stroll along a tree-lined path, the late afternoon light soft and golden, the kind that makes everything look like a film still. You talked and laughed, bumping shoulders every so often, each small touch an electric jolt you pretended not to feel.

And then, because apparently the universe loves poetic timing, the first drop of rain hit.

Then another.

Then - an entire sky’s worth.

Now you’re both half-sprinting, half-laughing through sheets of rain, your shoes slipping on wet pavement, until you find shelter under the overhang of a tiny garden café that’s long closed for the evening. It’s barely enough space for two people, which means your bodies are pressed close - almost too close. The air between you hums, thick and damp, and every breath feels shared.

You’re both soaked. Water drips down your arms, clings to your lashes, traces down your neck. His curls - god, his curls - are plastered to his forehead, rain still dripping from them. He’s laughing, chest rising and falling fast, his grin utterly unguarded.

“If only we had an umbrella now, right?” you say between breathless laughs, voice light and teasing.

He looks at you, eyes glinting. “I might have thought about bringing back yours.” His tone is playful, but there’s something low under it - something that curls around your spine.

“Oh really?” you challenge, still catching your breath. “But then you decided on becoming a criminal and steal my stuff instead?”

Pedro tilts his head, eyes narrowing like he’s turning the thought over in his mind. Rain drums a rhythm against the awning above you, the air filled with its soft roar. “No,” he says finally, voice quiet. “I wanted to have a second reason to write to you.”

The words hit harder than they should. Like a well-aimed punch of warmth to your lungs, knocking the air right out.

You open your mouth - something witty, something to defuse the spark - but nothing comes. Because no matter how you twist it, that was a flirt. A genuine, deliberate, no-escape flirt.

And he’s looking at you like he meant it.

The moment stretches.

You can hear your pulse now, a thrum that matches the rain. You swallow, acutely aware of how close he is - close enough that you can see the droplets sliding down his temple, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

“Sorry,” he murmurs after a heartbeat, voice softer now, almost uncertain. “Was that… creepy again?”

His question snaps you out of your stunned silence, and you shake your head quickly - too quickly - sending tiny arcs of rainwater flying. “No! No, it’s not creepy, I just -" You blink up at him, words tripping over themselves. “You haven’t… touched your matcha today.”

Oh god. Wow, that has to be the worst kind of comeback you could have come up with.

A laugh escapes him - low, quiet, completely disarming. “I hate matcha,” he then admits, voice rumbling, the corners of his mouth twitching up.

And before you can find a single coherent thought, he leans in.

It’s tentative at first, a soft brush of lips - a question rather than a statement. Warmth beneath the chill of the rain, gentle and unbearably careful. You freeze, breath catching in your throat. And then instinct takes over.

Your hands - already trembling from cold and adrenaline - find their way to the back of his neck, sliding through the damp curls there, pulling him closer. That’s all the permission he needs.

It’s not practiced or staged, not the perfect kind you see on screen. It’s messy, breathless, the kind that tilts your whole world on its axis. His hand moves to your waist, firm and grounding, while yours tangle deeper in his hair, feeling the soft resistance of the curls between your fingers.

He makes a sound then - low and rough, more growl than sigh - and the sound alone lights something inside you.

“Promise me,” he breathes, still close enough that his words brush your lips, “to do that as often as possible.”

Every suppressed thought, every maybe, every almost that had been simmering between you since that first text bubbles up now, breaking free in a rush of rain and heat. You tilt your head, and his lips part against yours, deepening the kiss again until you’re both chasing breath and losing it in the same motion.

The world narrows to the taste of him - faint coffee and something darker, something like electricity - and the way he murmurs against your mouth when you pull back just slightly.

You grin, heart pounding so loud it might echo. “It’s gonna cost you.”

His fingers slide down your arm until they find your hand, his thumb tracing a slow line across your skin. “Not until your coffee debts are paid,” he shoots back.

You laugh - soft, dizzy, happy - and when he kisses you again, the sound disappears between you, swallowed by the storm.

For the first time in months, you don’t care what happens next. Not the headlines. Not the what-ifs. Just this - the rain, the warmth, the quiet miracle that somehow, unbelievably, he came.

@wanniiieeee

Hope, you enjoyed this little fluff :) happy to read from you! Or entertain you with more:

My Masterlist

@pedrofan

[punkshort]

Somebody to Love

Pairing: Harry Castillo x waitress!reader

Summary: Harry finds someone who wants him for something other than his money.

Warnings: no spoilers!, language, flirting, rom-com meet-cute vibes, food and alcohol consumption, reader has two roommates that fit the rom-com vibe, smut (18+ MDNI), dry humping, unprotected piv sex, longing/yearning

WC: 7.6K

A/N: I haven't seen the movie yet so there's no spoilers, don't worry! This is written just knowing what we know from the trailers.

The first day he came into your diner, it was raining.

Well, more like pouring, actually.

You remembered because the little bell above the door clanged so loudly, you thought the ancient relic might have actually met its fate that day. When you turned to see who raced inside, it was him.

Harry.

He held a soaked copy of the New York Post in his hand. It was falling apart after doing an extremely poor job of keeping him dry in the sudden downpour. His dark hair was drenched and dripping all over the sticky tile floor. He blinked a few times, trying to get the rain out of his eyes without looking more pathetic than he already felt. He looked down at the destroyed newspaper and made a face before lifting his chin and scanning the restaurant.

That's when he spotted you.

He hesitated for a moment before offering up a lopsided grin and a shoulder shrug as you made your way towards him.

"Do you have a trash can I can borrow?"

You circled the host stand and held out the plastic bin, only to tease, "If you're borrowing it, that means you'll bring it back, right?"

He took a second then laughed politely at your shitty joke before dropping the newspaper into the empty bin with a solid thump.

"Consider it returned," he smiled, dark brown eyes sparkling despite the agitation he had felt moments before when he was caught in the rain.

You showed him to a table, one near the window, and brought him a coffee — to warm you up, you had said. He wrapped his hands gratefully around the stained mug and took a sip. When he swallowed, he paused, then looked up at you with genuine shock.

"This is... good."

You giggled. "Thanks."

"No, I mean—" He stopped to take another sip and made a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. "This is really good."

"You have a beautiful way with words," you teased again.

"Some of these expensive cafés around here don't make coffee half this good," he continued, taking another gulp.

"Well, I guess I've found my hidden talent," you shrugged.

The way he smiled at you had your heart skipping a beat.

There were other tables that probably needed to be cleaned or wanted their check, but you couldn't force yourself to step away. Something about him was magnetic.

And at the time, he really didn't seem all that special to the naked eye. He was just wearing a pair of worn jeans, an oversized brown jacket, and a basic looking tshirt underneath. He looked like every other working man within a five mile radius of your diner that stopped in for lunch every day. And yet... something pulled you to him.

Something must have pulled him to you, too, because a week later, he returned.

"No New York Post?" you asked when you greeted him at the door, hoping you didn't look too eager to see him.

He shook his head and pointed to the trash can.

"That's the only place The Post belongs. Only had it that day because someone left it at a bus stop bench. It was all I had."

"Desperate times," you mused before leading him to a table.

He looked a little dressier that day: slacks, but with a polo shirt. The only ring he had was on his pinky, one you were rather convinced was a fake emerald. You smiled to yourself, tucking away the lack-of-a-wedding-band note for later.

When he sat down, you noticed for the first time he placed a compact umbrella on the booth next to him before picking up the menu. You grinned and pointed to it with your ballpoint pen.

"Hey, you got yourself an umbrella," you said, "moving up in the world."

He looked up at you with those soft brown eyes again, the ones that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the very same eyes you couldn't get out of your head for a week.

"I learn from my mistakes."

He became a regular after that. Once a week, every Thursday around one in the afternoon. You weren't sure if the time just suited him best or if he picked it because he knew you would be working.

You had hoped it was the latter.

About two months later, the diner was unusually busy. A tour bus had stopped outside and the restaurant was overloaded with thirty extra patrons. The kitchen was slammed, the counters were a mess, and of course one of the servers had called off that day.

You forgot it was Thursday. Harry had come in and seen the chaos. He tried to catch your eye but you were too busy balancing four plates on your arms to notice.

Another waitress, Darcy, hurried up to greet him, looking equally as frazzled as you but still offered to clean a table in her section. Harry turned her down, said he wanted to wait for you, and leaned against the wall watching you work with a small smile on his face.

Once one of your tables got up, Darcy helped you clean it and murmured quietly that you had a request at the door. You glanced up, saw him, and grinned happily despite the stressful lunch hour.

"Not in a rush today?" you asked when you led him to your only open table. He slid into the booth and shook his head.

"Nothing that can't wait."

"I'm honored," you said sweetly with a hand pressed to your chest. He smirked and his eyes quickly scanned you up and down.

"You're worth waiting for."

It knocked the wind out of you at first. You blinked like you weren't sure you heard him right, then exhaled a nervous laugh.

"Careful or I might think you're flirting with me."

"So what if I am?"

You laughed again and felt your face heat up. You started to fan yourself with your notepad, which only made Harry's smile grow bigger.

"Oh, you must be a heartbreaker," you teased.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, tilting his head to the side, still smiling. You leaned forward, placing both palms flat on the freshly washed tabletop, and lowered your voice.

"You're a smooth-talker, Harry," you said, refusing to break eye contact. "I'll bet you have a waitress you visit every day of the week. I'm just Miss. Thursday."

He threw his head back and laughed. Like, really laughed. And it made you smile so big that you dropped your chin to your chest to hide.

When his laughter finally died down, you lifted your head to look at him again, both of you wearing matching grins.

"Not true," he said, his dimple catching your eye and making your heart flutter a bit. "Let me take you out for dinner," he finally added, and even though you saw it coming, you still felt a rush of excitement shoot through you when you heard the words.

"Yeah? So you can introduce me to Miss. Friday?"

"Is that when you're free?"

You nodded, teeth sinking into your lower lip.

"Then tomorrow it is," he said firmly, "and you can pick the restaurant."

You whistled low and straightened back up. Your other tables were clearing up and heading to the front to pay, but you couldn't care less.

"Anywhere?"

He nodded and folded his hands confidently in his lap.

"Anywhere."

"And what if I have expensive tastes, Mr. Castillo?" you asked with a flirty tone.

"I can afford it," he assured you, still wearing the same smile.

"Even Nova?" You had said the first fancy, most hard-to-get-into restaurant you could think of, just as a joke. But Harry nodded without missing a beat.

"Nova it is."

You laughed and shook your head.

"I was just kidding," you said, "seriously, I'm good with anything—"

"Would you like to eat at Nova?" he asked, cutting you off. You paused for a moment.

"Well... maybe one day," you shrugged, "but the waiting list to get in is, like—"

"How's eight work for you?" He was already tapping away on his phone, offering it like it was nothing.

"Uh— s-sure," you sputtered. "Eight works."

He held up his phone for you to take. "Save your number and address. I'll pick you up."

He said it like he serious, but by Friday you still expected him to show up and admit it was just for laughs and maybe take you to some hole in the wall Italian spot, if you were lucky.

You were just fixing your hair and smoothing down your dress when your two roommates squealed from the window.

"He's here!"

"Oh, damn — he's got a Mercedes? Who is this guy?"

You snatched your purse and ran out into the living room, wedging yourself between them. Your jaw dropped when you saw Harry step out of the driver's side and round the front, casually buttoning his smart looking jacket and glancing around the relatively quiet street. But before he ascended the stairs to your building's front door, he looked up and spotted your three faces practically pressed against the dirty glass.

"Fuck!" you giggled when you all flew away from the window. Then a moment later, the buzzer rang.

"Y-Yeah," you stammered, pressing the answer button with a stupid grin.

"It's Harry."

You pressed the other button to unlock the door, then pushed your one roommate out of the way so you could make sure you didn't have lipstick on your teeth.

"What does he do again?"

"Who fucking cares!"

"Shhh!!" you hissed right when a firm knock came from the door.

"I'll get it!" Melanie sang, skipping to the door to cut you off. She flung it open just as you were reaching for her shoulder to yank her back, revealing Harry on the other side. His face lit up when he saw you, then his gaze dropped to Mel and he politely held out his hand.

"I'm Harry—"

"I know," she gushed, grabbing his hand and shaking it roughly. He grinned and glanced at you quickly before looking back at her. "I'm Melanie, that one's Liv."

Harry nodded at Liv perched on the couch who was waving at him like a fucking lunatic.

"Nice to meet you both." His eyes scanned the modest apartment behind you. "Cute place. How long have—"

"Let's go!" you said, pushing Mel out of the way and sneaking out the door.

"Have her back by midnight!" Melanie shouted as you were dragging him away.

"Yeah! But if you don't, at least do us all a favor and rock her world. It's been a while!" Liv added.

"Oh, my god!" you screeched over your shoulder while Harry chuckled softly next to you. "I'm going to kill—"

The apartment door slammed shut. You could hear their combined giggles, even though you were already halfway down the hall.

Harry cleared his throat, biting back a smile while you fanned your face in embarrassment.

"I am — so sorry about them," you said, stepping onto the elevator. "They're just... they're assholes," you laughed before tapping the L button repeatedly. "Sorry, it takes a few tries," you mumbled, then sighed happily when the button finally lit up and the doors slid shut.

An awkward silence settled around you as you waited for the elevator to take you to the lobby.

Fucking Mel and Liv, you seethed to yourself while sparing a nervous glance in Harry's direction. He was staring straight ahead at the closed doors, smiling in that way that made your knees weak, and you felt yourself smile back.

"So..." you began, breathing a sigh of relief when the doors opened. He pressed his palm against the side so they wouldn't shut, and looked at you expectantly. You blinked and cursed under your breath when it occurred to you he was waiting for you to go first, then hurried over the threshold and out into the run-down lobby.

"So," he echoed, opening the door for you to step outside. At least that time, you expected it and didn't look like a complete idiot. But then he stopped you before you could take one step down and offered his arm. You thanked him softly, looking shyly down at his crooked elbow, and looped your hand through.

If Liv didn't make it abundantly clear you hadn't been on a date in a while, it sure as hell was obvious to him now.

"You look—"

You stopped short when you heard tapping on the glass above your heads. As Harry was reaching to open the passenger side door, you looked up to find Mel and Liv making obscene gestures towards you and your date. Mel was miming a blowjob while Liv dry humped the air. Your eyes widened in horror and your jaw dropped. Harry turned to you, noticed your expression, but before he could spin around to look up, you grabbed his face, keeping his eyes locked on you.

"If you have any respect for me," you said lowly, "you will not look up right now."

He laughed and stepped back so you could get into his car, silently promising to ignore your roommates.

"Anyway," you laughed when he had finally pulled away from the curb. "You look so nice. I had no idea you cleaned up so well."

Harry grinned as he smoothly changed lanes.

"What, this old thing?" he joked, referring to his perfectly tailored black suit. When he came to a stop at a red light, he looked over at you. His gaze slid down your form, taking in the deep purple dress you had borrowed from Liv that was just a little too tight, but in a way that showed off your curves.

"You look absolutely beautiful," he breathed after what felt like an eternity. The way he said it made it sound like he was truly blown away and it caused a wave of goosebumps to flash across your skin.

"Thank you," you murmured shyly.

The light changed to green and you grew distracted with the car — the smooth as butter leather, the tinted windows, the hundreds of fancy looking controls that reminded you of a space ship. Your gaze kept darting all around, taking everything in.

"What do you do, Harry?" you asked.

You had asked him a few times before, and every time he managed to change the subject or sidestep the question. It didn't even occur to you he kept giving you non-answers until the night before, when you were telling Mel and Liv about your date and the question inevitably came up.

"What? I never told you?"

You shook your head and the corner of his mouth turned up into a half-smile.

"Huh... hold on, we're almost there," he said, pulling up behind a convertible with a logo on the back you didn't recognize, but based on the way people on the sidewalk were gawking, told you it was expensive.

And yet again, Harry managed to distract you. When you looked up and saw the sign for Nova above an impossibly gorgeous looking restaurant, your eyes nearly bugged out of your head.

"Are you serious?" you gasped. Harry looked at you, confused.

"You said—"

"I know what I said," you replied, "I didn't think— h-how did you—"

You couldn't get the words out. It was insane. It had to be one of the hottest restaurants in New York City, and yet Harry was able to get a reservation on a Friday night with barely twenty-four hours notice?

Your door opened and a young man in an impeccably pressed suit stood on the outside, offering you his arm. You gently took it while Harry got out on the other side, sliding a bill to the valet and rounding the front of his car to join you on the sidewalk.

"Ready?"

You nodded, speechless, as you took his arm. He led you up through the huge double doors and to the hostess, giving his name with practiced ease. She tapped something on a computer, smiled at you both, and led you through the restaurant.

It was dark, but in a warm, comfortable way. The guests were not rowdy, the kitchen was silent, and there was a pianist playing classical music in the center of the dining room.

A far cry from your diner.

"Here you are. Enjoy your meal," the hostess said once she reached your table. It was off to the side of the room. Private.

Harry pulled your chair back and looked at you, smiling at the way you were utterly and completely stunned.

"Thank you," you whispered, sitting primly in the chair. In front of you, there was an intimidating set of silverware on top of a white linen tablecloth. A candle was placed between you both, along with a small bouquet of flowers.

Harry sat down across from you, unbuttoning his suit and arching an eyebrow in your direction.

"Is it living up to your expectations, Miss. Thursday?"

You giggled and nodded.

"It's a step up from the diner, that's for sure."

"But the coffee's terrible," he grinned. Then he leaned forward, looking side to side quickly before meeting your eye. "Waitresses aren't as pretty, either."

Your cheeks burned and you laughed again, fanning yourself while looking away. Harry chuckled and leaned back in his chair.

"It's cute when you do that," he said. You dropped your hand and looked back at him.

"Do what?"

"When I pay you a compliment, you fan yourself," he said. "Very 50s movie star. I like that."

"Oh," you replied softly, "I didn't even realize. But... thank you."

"You're welcome." He folded his hands in his lap and crossed one leg over the other under the table.

When your server arrived to get your drink order, Harry sensed your discomfort right away.

"Do you like wine?" he asked, taking charge. You nodded. "Red or white?"

"Red."

"We'll take the bottle of the 1982 Chateau Latour Pauillac," he said, looking up at the waiter.

You stared dumbly at Harry after the server disappeared to get your wine.

"That sounds really expensive."

"Thought you had expensive tastes?" he reminded you with a smirk.

"I was joking," you said, "I drink wine out of a box! I can't tell the difference!"

He laughed and leaned forward again, resting on his elbows when he said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

You nodded and leaned forward, as well.

"I can't tell the difference, either."

You dissolved into a fit of giggles just as the server arrived with your bottle of wine. He took a customary sniff and taste before nodding his approval, then waited until your glasses were filled before addressing you again.

"Are you okay with the tasting menu?" Harry asked.

"Uh, yeah," you said, then looked up at the waiter and nodded. "Sounds great."

After he left, you tried to mimic Harry. You picked up your glass, swirled it a bit, took a sniff and then a tiny sip. He watched you with an amused look as you smacked your lips together, looking deep in thought.

"Hm," you hummed, "I'm getting notes of... cherry... and..."

You glanced over at Harry and tried not to laugh.

"Amber."

He gave you that wide smile that brought out that dimple you loved.

"Amber?" he repeated. "What's amber?"

"I have no idea," you laughed, "I was trying to impress you. Did it work?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time," he said, making you laugh again.

Halfway through the tasting menu, you realized no one had ever made you laugh as much as Harry did. Your cheeks actually hurt from smiling so much, but you couldn't stop. He just had something about him that made you feel so comfortable and at ease, even if you were way out of your element.

"Hey," you said suddenly right as the server was putting dessert in front of you. Harry cocked his head to the side, waiting. "You never told me what you do for work."

He slowly grinned, nodded his thanks to the waiter, then lifted his wine glass to his lips.

"What'd you think of the wine?" he asked.

You shook your head and gave him a fake look of disapproval.

"Nuh uh. No changing the subject," you said. He chuckled and set his glass down.

"Alright. Private equity," he sighed, lacing his fingers together and ignoring his dessert completely. You blinked and frowned.

"What does that mean?" you asked, feeling dumb.

"I buy companies, strip them down, make them better, and sell them for more money," he answered plainly.

You nodded and took a bite of your dessert.

"Sounds... interesting."

"No, it doesn't," he smiled. You laughed, hiding your smile behind your hand.

"No, it really doesn't," you agreed, making him laugh, too. "Do you like it?"

He shrugged and finally lifted a fork to scoop up a piece of tart.

"I'm good at it."

"But do you like it?"

"Sometimes. The people can be draining but when it pays off, it's rewarding."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about the diner, too," you sighed, feigning seriousness when you added, "it's almost like we do the exact same thing, huh?"

You made him laugh and once again, you were amazed by how easy it was to be with him already.

After Harry paid what appeared to be an absolutely ridiculous bill that made you squirm a little in your seat, you were faced with the awkward part of the date that you almost forgot about.

Does he take you home? Does he ask you to come back to his place? Would you go?

"Want to take a walk?" he asked when you both stepped outside of the restaurant, and you breathed a sigh of relief. "Weather's nice. Unless— those shoes—"

He looked down at your heels but you quickly shook your head.

"No, I'm good. A walk sounds nice."

Luckily, he walked slow because you were lying — your shoes were not made for comfort. But you were willing to sacrifice it to spend a little more time with him.

The street was bustling with life, but it wasn't very loud. A few people laughed while sharing cigarettes outside of a bar. A man with earbuds and vibrant, reflective clothes jogged by, minding his own business. An older woman wearing a chic poncho with a full face of makeup walked her small dog across the street.

It was a nicer neighborhood than the one you lived in, that was for certain.

"Thank you again for dinner," you said after the silence stretched on a little too long.

"You're welcome," he replied, then waited a beat or two before adding, "If this isn't your scene or you don't feel comfortable, we don't have to do stuff like this next time. We can do anything you want."

You frowned, confused.

"I liked it," you said slowly, "it's definitely not like anything I've ever experienced before, but I still liked it."

"Yeah?" he asked, stopping suddenly. You did the same and turned to gaze up at him.

"Yeah. Of course."

He looked relieved. His face relaxed a bit and he gave you a small smile. Then you shot him a coy look when you added, "So there will be a next time, then?"

He smiled wider and tipped his chin up so he could glance at the night sky, and that was when you noticed the flush creeping up his neck, just past his collar.

"I sure as hell hope so."

He looked back down, eyes flickering across your face and settling briefly on your lips before finding your eyes again.

"I'd love that," you said, feeling the warmth creeping up your own neck from the way he looked at you.

Then, he brought a hand up to cup your face, his dark brown eyes shimmering in the moonlight.

"Can I kiss you?"

He said it so softly, almost like he was nervous, but you found it hard to believe. How could someone like him be nervous around someone like you?

You felt yourself drift a little closer, that magnetic pull doing you in. His cologne invaded your senses, his warmth curled around you like a blanket, and you nodded, unable to form the word yes.

He was gentle at first, and his lips were unexpectedly soft against yours. He moved slow, savoring every second, massaging your lips tenderly against his own and learning the feel of you for the first time.

You melted into him so easily. The hand on your face gripped you a little harder when your lips parted, and when he deepened the kiss, you could still taste lemon and wine on his tongue.

He stepped forward and you stumbled backwards, arms flying up to wrap around his neck. His free hand found your lower back and he guided you further until you felt the cool press of brick behind you.

Within a minute, the kiss went from gentle to heated. You were firmly stuck between Harry and a brick wall, and all you could do was try to keep up with the intensity behind each swipe of his tongue against yours. His beard pressed into your chin, burning the skin there, making his mark, but you loved it.

You were completely lost in it, in him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he kissed you like he may never get another chance again. Months of weekly visits to the diner that left you wanting all built up to that moment and neither of you could seem to stop.

That is, until a group of people out drinking walked by with a low whistle aimed in your direction and finally, Harry tore himself away.

"Christ," he chuckled, still standing too close and still holding your face. You both panted for air and stared at one another, searching each other's eyes, trying to get a read.

"Maybe I should — I should take you home."

You threaded your fingers through the hair on the back of his head and before you could lose your nerve, said:

"Or you can show me where you live."

He didn't hesitate, which thrilled you, and fifteen minutes later, you found yourself in his car with his hand firmly planted on your thigh as he drove you across town.

"Tribeca?" you asked, peering around.

"Yep."

"Wow," you breathed, looking out the window. Every building you passed by looked more impressive than the last until Harry turned down a street and slowed down.

The doorman jumped to attention, snapping his fingers at a younger man behind a counter, the both of them rushing outside.

"Mr. Castillo," the doorman greeted warmly when Harry stepped out. Harry nodded, murmured good evening, and rounded the car to open your door. From the corner of your eye, you saw the doorman swat the other on the shoulder, who shrugged and made a perplexed face in return.

Your hand slid easily into Harry's and he shut the door behind you.

"My apologies," the doorman said to you, "we didn't realize you would be having a guest this evening," he added, looking at Harry.

"It's alright," he said smoothly while handing the keys and a folded bill to the younger man. "I'll take any chance to prove I'm a gentleman."

They chuckled and you smiled, but mostly for a different reason: it appeared Harry didn't bring guests home often.

The lobby was stunning. Bright crystal chandeliers hung above your heads. The carpet was the softest, thickest carpet you ever stepped foot on. Two gorgeous fireplaces sat on either end of the spacious room and in front of each was a sitting area filled with couches and chairs and tables. Even the elevator was beautiful. Inside the car was mirrored with golden edges. Soft music filtered through the air and just when you noticed the ornate light fixture above you, Harry swiped a card and pressed the P button on the elevator, making your jaw drop.

"Penthouse?" you squeaked.

He gave you a strained smile and glanced down at his watch.

Your brows furrowed for a moment, trying to figure out what was going through his head.

You stepped off the elevator, following Harry into his apartment. Lights were already on and dimmed throughout the space, as if they were on timers. He watched you take a few hesitant steps forward and slowly spin around, taking everything in. Your eyes trailed over the marble kitchen countertops, the plush velvet chairs in the sitting room, the massive television, the floor to ceiling windows overlooking a breathtaking view. But it lacked... something.

Harry remained silent, waiting for you to turn back to him. When you did, you gave him a small smile and said, "Is this all?"

He laughed softly and pushed off the wall to join you.

"What do you think?" he asked, brushing his knuckles up and down your arm.

"Do you like it?"

It was the second time you asked him that question in one evening.

"Yes. I do."

You nodded and took a step forward, closing the small gap between you.

"Then I like it, too."

His mouth found yours once again, kissing you with an urgency that had you wondering if it was more than just lust behind it. Either way, you matched it, tongue swirling in tandem with his and fingers weaving eagerly through his hair as he blindly walked you both through the kitchen, towards where you assumed his bedroom would be.

When you stumbled past the threshold to his room, you giggled from your combined excitement, breaking the kiss. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, lips peppering kisses all the way to your pulse point. You craned your neck to the side and your eyes fluttered closed with a soft moan. His hands searched your dress, looking for the zipper, pulling hastily at the fabric as the backs of your legs bumped up against his bed.

"Careful," you whispered, and his groping stilled. "I borrowed this, it's not mine," you explained with a laugh. Harry pulled away from your neck to catch his breath and gaze down at you. His face looked flushed, eyes a little glassy, and his lips already swollen. Something about seeing a man so put together look so wrecked, all because of you, sent a tingle down your spine.

"I could buy a hundred more to replace it," he reminded you with one lifted eyebrow.

You grinned. "I don't care."

Something flickered across his face. Something soft, not unlike disbelief. Then his hands were on you again, searching for the zipper now that he could see properly.

In a heartbeat, the dress became a purple puddle at your feet and Harry was lowering you carefully onto his bed with his mouth nipping and sucking up and down the column of your throat, pulse coming alive at his touch.

You arched your back and dragged a hand through his hair with a gasp, holding him against your neck while your hips lift, searching for friction and thank god, he gave it to you. He dropped his weight between your legs with a grunt and grinds, soaking up every delicious sound you made underneath him.

His hands found the straps of your bra and he slipped them past your shoulders, kissing every inch of skin as he went. With a speed that made you gasp, Harry reached behind and unclasped your bra, then tossed it to the side to join your dress and shoes.

Without missing a beat, he continued to plant wet kisses all the way down your sternum, between your breasts, and only then did he pause to look up at you with heavy lidded eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful, do you know that?"

You couldn't answer him. The words got lodged in your throat when his mouth wrapped around your breast, sucking and flicking his tongue over your nipple while you writhed impatiently beneath him.

"Fuck," you moaned as he continued to explore your body, like he was mapping you, memorizing you. "Harry — please..."

You were tugging feebly at his pristine white button down, his suit coat long forgotten somewhere in the journey from the front door to his bedroom.

He reared back at your plea and began to feverishly unbutton the shirt, his gaze all the while raking up and down your nearly naked body like he was drinking you in.

When he shoved the shirt past his shoulders, he made an annoyed noise in the back of his throat when the fabric caught on his wrists, forgetting entirely about his cufflinks.

He dropped each one into the silk sheets and nearly ripped his shirt off, far too eager to get his mouth back where it belonged — on you.

He fell forward onto his arms and continued to kiss you everywhere he could reach while your hands snaked between your bodies, working shakily on his leather belt.

"Jesus — get these off," you huffed, pushing down on the waistband of his slacks. He chuckled against your neck and helped you, kicking the offensive material to the floor and flinging his white undershirt off to join the rapidly growing pile of clothes.

You sucked in a deep breath at the sight of his bare chest for the first time. He took care of himself — that much was clear. But he wasn't overly buff and his stomach was still a little soft. You dragged your palms slowly up and down his tanned skin, admiring every curve and slope until your fingers found the band of his boxers. His stomach tensed when you slid your hand inside and you heard him stifle a groan when your fingers curled around his cock.

"I wanna see it," you murmured in his ear while slowly stroking him up and down. His hips lazily followed your hand, his hot breath skittered across your chest, and even though you were in the middle of this world, surrounded by extravagance you could only ever dream of, the only thing he wanted was you.

He granted your request, pulling down his boxers and freeing his cock, leaving him entirely bare to you. He watched with heavy eyes as you continued to work him with your fist, enjoying the way he twitched in your palm when your lips parted greedily at the sight of him in your hand.

He had enough. He couldn't take it any longer. His fingers curled around the edge of your black panties, stretching them away from your hips, slowly, before looking up at you.

"You borrow these, too?"

You shook your head then yelped when the fabric tore suddenly away from your hips.

"Jesus!" you giggled, but his mouth hastily slanted over yours, silencing you with a deep kiss that had your head swimming and your knees weak.

"Been thinking about this for weeks," he confessed, the words slipping past his lips and pouring into your mouth. One arm dropped down to grip himself at the base and your own hands instantly grabbed onto his broad shoulders, bracing yourself for what was to happen next.

"Me, too," you whispered, but he just shook his head while lining himself up at your entrance.

"No, it's not the same," he murmured back. "You're all I can think about. Driving me fucking crazy every second of the day. Wondered what you were doing—" You felt the blunt tip of him breach your cunt and you inhaled sharply. "Wondered— wondered what it would be like to— to— fuck..."

You gasped in unison when he pressed inside, parting your wet walls with ease, like he was always meant to be there. You whimpered his name and clawed at his shoulders, unable to look away from his face contorting with pleasure, at the feeling of you wrapping around him for the first time.

"To — what?" you exhaled when he was fully seated inside of you. His nose nudged the side of your head and he planted a tender kiss to your temple.

"Wondered what it would be like to wake up next to you every day."

It was so unexpectedly sweet. It had your stomach twisting as you pulled him back down to your mouth, your hand cupping the back of his neck to keep him close.

He rolled his hips forward, slowly, allowing you both a chance to adjust to the tight fit of his cock inside of you. You moaned into his mouth and it just spurred him on. His hand found a home on your hip, thumb pressing into the crease at the top of your thigh, then he did it again — he pulled halfway out just to slowly glide right back in, basking in the way you stretched for him.

"You're perfect," he murmured against your lips. Your eyebrows pinched together, gasping at the heavy weight of him every time he pushed forward. "You're so sweet and beautiful and fucking — perfect."

He groaned the last word, burying himself as deep as possible as if to emphasize his point. You shuddered in his arms, unable to articulate just how good, how full, how complete you felt. All you could manage to do was nip weakly at his chin and rock your hips upward, encouraging him to move faster, to take more — take all of you.

So, he did. He picked up the pace until he found a rhythm that made your mouth hang open and your legs shake. He was hypnotized, watching the way your eyes rolled back and your tits bounced with every harsh thrust. The only thing that kept you firmly in place was his hand pressing down on your hip as he took and took and took.

"God, you're pretty," he moaned. He was overcome with you, completely sunk and drowning. "So fucking pretty like this. I'll never get enough. Never — shit — never get enough."

The huge, sprawling bedroom was filled with the sounds of your skin slapping together punctuated with the soft noises you murmured into one another's skin. It was as if nothing else even existed outside of that space, even though you were very much firmly in the heart of one of the busiest cities in the world. You were both so lost in each other that nothing else mattered.

He groaned when he felt your arousal dripping down his shaft and onto his sheets. You were just so tight and warm and perfect, it was driving him insane and he wished more than anything that he could come inside you. He wanted to see the way he spilled out of your pussy and leaked down your soft thighs. He wanted the image burned into his brain for eternity.

"Harry—" you whined, nails digging into his back. "Oh god, don't stop! Don't— don't stop— ple—"

His mouth captured yours once again, quieting you while also giving you exactly what you wanted. He snapped his hips ruthlessly, knocking the air from your lungs as you wrapped your legs around his waist. You pulsed around his cock and whined so sweetly into his mouth that it had him feeling dizzy and reckless.

He slipped his tongue past your lips when you came, his name garbled in your throat in a way that made him feel like a fucking god. You tore yourself away, too desperate for fresh air, and dropped your head lazily into his pillow as you rode out the rest of your orgasm.

"Harry," you sighed, and his skin prickled at the sound. Your eyelids drooped and your swollen lips parted to drag in more air. You were so spent but still wanted him to feel good, so you tightened your hold around his waist and dragged your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.

"Come for me," you whispered into his ear. You felt his entire body shudder at your command and a jolt of confidence ripped through you.

"I will," he gasped, vision blurring with every wet smack of his hips against yours. "I will, baby. I wi— I'll give you anything you want. I'll — oh, f-fuck..."

Your teeth gently grazed the shell of his ear, just enough to sharpen his senses. His arms wrapped around you, holding you still as he fucked you hard now, chasing his own release.

"Inside me?" you asked. The way your voice sounded so sweet and innocent had his cock instantly swelling.

"N-no, I can't." He couldn't risk it but it still broke his heart to tell you no.

You made a disappointed noise but you didn't push it. You loosened your legs and a few hard thrusts later he was pulling out of you with a grunt. Your legs dropped to the mattress, shaky and loose. You rolled your head and watched in a trance as Harry hovered above you, jerking his cock with clenched teeth until he stilled with a low, deep moan. A moment later, you felt hot spurts of cum painting your stomach and mound. It was filthy, the way you loved being covered in him, how you reveled in the feeling of his sticky release on your skin.

He looked dazed and breathless when he was done, staring down at you with bleary eyes as he gasped for air. But then his gaze brightened when he watched you lift a lazy finger to swipe through his mess, collecting a taste and popping it into your mouth with a moan.

"Jesus," he groaned, and you giggled. He pushed a hand through his hair and took a deep breath before forcing himself to stand.

"I'll get you something," he said, stumbling for a moment. You eyed his soaked, semi-hard cock appreciatively before he turned to his bathroom. He returned with the softest washcloth you'd ever felt in your life. You almost told him not to use it, that you felt bad ruining it, then remembered where you were and who you were with and refrained.

Afterwards, he was incredibly sweet. He pulled you into his arms and turned out the lights, both of you still naked between his silk sheets. His thumb rubbed gentle circles against your arm and his lips occasionally brushed lovingly over your eyes, nose, or forehead.

In return, you pressed lazy kisses against his throat and slotted your leg in between his, unable to stop yourself from smiling.

"I had a really nice time tonight," you finally said, breaking the silence and making him laugh.

"Me, too," he replied, gazing at you in the beam of moonlight that cast across his bed.

You bit your bottom lip shyly and glanced around his bedroom. There hadn't been much of an opportunity to take it all in before, but now in the quiet stillness of night, you realized his room was unusually bare with the exception of his huge bed and one large abstract painting on the wall.

"Did you just move in?"

He shook his head, eyes still locked on you. "No."

He could tell you were curious but didn't want to pry, so he threw you a lifeline.

"I could've hired a decorator but," he glanced around, looking a little forlorn. "I wanted to wait and do it myself. With someone."

"Oh," you breathed softly. Then, sensing his vulnerability, added, "I would have done the same thing. It's part of what makes a house a home, you know?"

His dark eyes flashed to yours and he smiled.

"Yeah, that's right."

You grinned and snuggled a little closer into his chest. His lips found the top of your head and he hummed, content. Your eyes slid closed and you could feel your body relaxing, ready to drift off to sleep when he spoke again.

"I have a confession to make."

Your eyes snapped back open and you looked up expectantly.

"I don't think I can wait til Thursday to see you again," he smirked. Your heart skipped a beat and you pretended to think it over for a second.

"Well... I guess I could make some time on Monday or Tuesday," you mused.

"How about both?"

You swallowed and nodded, hoping you didn't come off too eager when you said, "Yeah, I think that would work."

As he pressed a tender kiss to your lips to seal the deal, you mustered up the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since the day before.

"Harry?"

"Hm?"

He looked at you like he was completely smitten, like he was ready to give you the world on a silver platter if you asked.

"Since we're making confessions, I have a question that's been bothering me," you said carefully. His smile faltered, but only for a moment.

"What is it?"

"Why didn't you tell me about all of this before? When I asked what you did for work, you always blew me off. I was starting to think you were unemployed but—" you laughed and looked out the partially covered window overlooking Manhattan. "—I was way off."

Harry sighed and rolled onto his back, bringing you with him to lay on his chest.

"I haven't had a very good track record with dating," he said. "And usually when women find out what I do, all they see is the money, the lifestyle, the parties, but..." he trailed off for a moment, fingers playing idly with the ends of your hair. "I just wanted someone to want me for me."

You tilted your chin up, giving him a sorrowful look as you cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at you.

"I want you for you," you told him firmly. He smiled, took your hand from his face, and turned it over to kiss your palm.

"I know."

Truthfully, he knew before he even asked you out on a date. The months he spent getting to know you at the diner had him convinced. But when he told you what he did and showed you where he lived and your only reaction — your first concern — was did he like it? Well, that gave him all the hope in the world that you just might be that someone to help him decorate his home one day.

[jjlevin]

🤍🤍🤍

[marc-spectorr]

𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔

pairing: harry castillo x f!reader

summary: you and harry fuck in the shower. you later realize that something has changed.

warnings: 4.8k wc. explicit content. pre-established fwb. handjob. fingering. unprotected p-in-v shower sex. fluffy aftercare. feelings get involved. contains a minor spoiler. no physical description of the reader other than she has hair.

a/n: full disclosure, i haven’t seen materialists (& idk if i ever will bc from what i heard about what happens, watching it will just make me mad lmao). anyway, after seeing this gif and harry edits, something possessed me to write this.

as always, hope you enjoy and feedback would be much appreciated!

Fuck, you need him.

Again.

Badly.

You had stirred awake at the sound of the shower turning on in the private en-suite, your hand brushing across the silk sheets beside you that are still warm. Then, comes the tender, pulsing ache between your thighs, one that sharpens when your memory starts drifting back;

His mouth, his fingers, his hands. Skin on skin, your breaths and moans intertwined like your bodies were, moving as one.

It has only been two, three hours since Harry's cock was buried deep inside you, his voice low and sinful as he whispered the filthiest things into your ear. He made you cum for a third time right there that night, much harder than the previous two (or ever)— and god, it was so intense that you passed out in his arms immediately after.

Now, you lie in an empty bed that’s too big for one person, craving Harry again as if you weren’t satisfied the last time. The truth is, he’s ruined you. He has from the very first moment you started sleeping together. Three months ago, to be precise, when this arrangement—pure hot sex, no strings attached— was agreed upon. You never expected it to leave you this wrecked and wanting more and more.

Harry is charming, handsome. Irresistible, addicting. Like he’s the only thing in the world that could pull you apart and piece you back together under the same touch.

And he’s in the other room. Standing alone, naked under a spray of water. Just several strides away.

Without a second thought, you throw back the covers and roll out of bed. Your bare skin prickles from the chill in the air; your body throbs from the earlier activities, and you almost couldn’t walk a straight path. But you don’t seem to care. Your feet carry you towards the bathroom door left ajar, not wasting any more time.

The warm, humid fog greets you at first. The water pattering softly against the pale white tile masks the noise of your movements as you approach the misted-glass shower stall.

Harry doesn’t notice you immediately, allowing you a few seconds to admire the sight of his broad back and shoulders. The way beads of water glisten and slide across taut muscles that ripple under his skin as he lathers soap unhurriedly all over his body.

Not only does he fuck like a god, but he looks like one, too.

He hums an unfamiliar tune to himself, quiet but rich; smooth and warm like whiskey. It echoes off the walls, the rumbling sound close to a touch you somehow feel even if it didn't land.

Your breath catches somewhere between your lungs and your lips. It's sweet, slow torture— you standing there and not saying a word, not reaching out. You can't tear your eyes away, not that you wanted to. Fuck, no. You're going to savor every second of this, commit each detail of Harry to memory, and tuck it away with all the other dirty ones.

And when you've finally had enough— when the blooming heat in your belly has melted down your restraint— you slip into the shower stall behind Harry, pressing your body gently into his solid back. He doesn't tense up at your unexpected presence. If anything, he relaxes more with you there. Steam envelops you as your hands glide over his slick chest, feeling the thrumming beneath your palm when he chuckles.

"Didn't mean to wake you, baby. You should've stayed in bed, I wasn't going to take too long," Harry says, his hand catching one of yours to bring up to his lips.

In return, you softly kiss the hollow between his shoulder blades. "And lose out on an opportunity to watch you in the shower? No, thank you. Besides, m'not really tired anymore."

"Sure about that?" He wonders, and you can practically hear the smirk in his tone. "Thought I wore you out pretty good earlier."

"Mhmm, you did," you murmur against Harry's back, your hands beginning to drift down his chest, fingers slowly caressing his soft belly, and the thatch of hair there. You almost miss the subtle stutter of his breath, drowned out by the steady cascade above your heads. "But I missed you and this..."

Harry lets out a soft groan when your hand lightly brushes against his cock, which has been stirring with interest from the moment your touch landed upon him. You grin at that, unseen by him, of course. You relish knowing how fast he gets worked up by you, from not doing too much at that either.

"Needy, needy girl," he cooes, thinking he’s in complete control here, just like always. Harry tries to turn around and face you, but you gently push forward, pinning him to the wall.

You keep your body flush against Harry’s to give him no room to move. He doesn’t fight it, though, which is more surprising to you than not. Perhaps he doesn’t make an attempt because your fingers are now wrapped around the girth of his cock, choosing to surrender to baser urges rather than delay relief.

But then again, you know Harry. You know he likes it when you show him what you want. When that bold confidence of yours doesn't shy away from him, acting as though you're worth more than his wealth and yours combined. It's what drew him to you when you first met at some glitzy gala in Manhattan neither of you wanted to attend in the first place. Maybe you taking the lead for a change is turning him on more than he anticipated.

“Fu-uck, baby. That’s it,” Harry grunts, rough and ragged. He leans forward, bracing an arm against the shower tile as you continue pumping his length with long, steady strokes from behind. His hand finds your other resting low at his hip, and he laces his fingers with yours, his grip tightening, grounding— you’re not entirely sure if he was holding back or barely holding on.

Slick from the coated mix of water, soap, and his own arousal, your hand moves up and down Harry’s shaft, hot and heavy, effortlessly. You see the way his head dips down to watch you work him over with such practiced and devastating ease. Every drag of your closed palm, every twist and tug and squeeze, unravels him in a way that he can’t and won’t stop.

Harry’s close. You’re well acquainted with his body at this point to be sure of that. You can feel it with each broken breath pushing past his lips, in the slight shiver beneath his skin, the tight rise and fall of his chest. How his hips jerk into your fist with small, shallow, desperate thrusts, a string of curses and praises muttered low along with your name.

There's something thrilling about having Harry like this, teetering over the edge. You could draw it out, tease him helplessly. Leave him aching, begging, and trembling like he often does to you.

But you didn't come here for that. As much as it lit a hot, dangerous fire within you, you wanted Harry to fuck you. You wanted the throbbing cock in your hand back inside you, to quell the ache that no fingers, mouth, or toys could ever do.

Your rhythm falters, then eventually stills. Harry is quick to react, a sound caught in his throat— half-protest, half plea. He inhales sharply, body tensing when he’s pulled back from the very brink. His head lifts from the tile where he’d rested it, and he glances over his shoulder to meet your hazy eyes.

The heat in his gaze is dark, searing, and hungry, as if he doesn’t at all appreciate the fact that you’ve stopped so abruptly.

“Not gonna finish what you started, baby?” Harry pants, his hand reaching down to drape over your fingers that remain loosely curled around the base of him. He twitches against the softness of your palm. “Didn’t think you could be cruel.”

“Cruel? Never. Well, at least not now anyway,” you reply, placing a kiss on the center of his spine. “I was hoping that you would finish inside me instead.”

“That can be arranged.”

You wring Harry’s cock with one last slow pull, just enough to make him shudder, before letting him slip from your grasp. It’s only then that you take a step back, allowing him space to turn to you.

And when he does, you feel the power shift back to Harry. Something low in your belly coils so tight that it almost hurts. Your eyes drag over him without an ounce of shame— flushed, gorgeous, and hard.

Fuck, Harry is so hard, his tip swollen and a shade or two darker. Just one look at him and your pussy clenches around nothing, begging to be filled. He notices this, notices how your thighs press firmly together from the mere anticipation, your eyes locked in a silent, electric exchange.

Then all at once, Harry’s mouth crashes onto yours, fierce, bruising, and urgent. The force of which nearly causes you to stumble if it hadn’t been for his steady grip settling on your waist. His other hand slides behind your head, angling you perfectly for him to deepen the kiss, his tongue insistent and greedy as it dives past your lips in a hungry sweep.

He doesn’t slow down, not even as he backs you against the cool tile of the wall. The shower stream hits only Harry now, his body shielding you from it, the heat of him replacing the warmth of the water on you.

Harry’s lips break away from yours, dragging them across your cheek, along the line of your jaw. He continues down onto your neck, his mouth moving with a purpose; teeth grazing lightly, nipping and sucking against your tender flesh until it undoubtedly leaves a bloom of color— you feel it, even if you can’t see it.

“So fucking beautiful… and all mine,” Harry rasps, the words meant for you, but just as much for himself.

You see his throat work as he swallows, his large hand skimming up the curve of your waist, thumb brushing gently under the swell of your breast. His heavy-lidded eyes take in every inch of you before him, as if this is the first time he’s ever seen you bare, wet, and wanting— like he’s looking at something so sinfully holy.

“Yours,” you whisper, and hearing it hits Harry like a live wire.

Because suddenly he’s surging forward, his mouth claiming yours again with kisses that are all messy and consuming, that leave you with no room to breathe.

Your head starts to spin, and your knees buckle from the intensity. But Harry's there, trapping you between his chest and the shower wall, keeping you upright, fully flushed against him.

Harry only breaks away from your lips when you arch your back slightly, rolling your hips against his. He lets out a groan, rough and guttural, his breath hot and uneven as it fans over your face. You rock against him once more, and he hisses at the sensation— at the sweet friction he gets from each grind against your pelvis. His warm, glistening precum smears across wherever it can reach.

“Feel that, baby?” Harry husks as your eyes drop to where the rigid line of his cock ruts between the two of you. “That’s all you. You did that. Made me so hard…fuck I can’t even think anymore. I need you— gotta have you."

A hand then comes into view, trailing from your waist to your hip, and then dipping lower and lower until he’s palming your sex, groaning low when he finds the slick mess pooling down there.

“God, you’re soaking wet. Haven't even touched you properly yet. All this from jacking me off, hmm?”

You answer with a breathless whimper when Harry leisurely drags two digits through your slit, gathering your arousal onto his fingers. Your gaze follows as he lifts his hand to his mouth, sliding those fingers covered in a thin sheen of desire between his lips, sucking and savoring the essence that is purely you.

He hums in satisfaction. "You taste so sweet, darling. Wish my legs weren't shot, ‘cause I'd go down on you right here, right now."

A renewed rush of heat spreads under your skin as you’re reminded of how unbelievably good Harry is at eating pussy. It’s earth-shattering each and every time. He listens to your body, knows exactly what to do and when to give it to make you come undone easily. You love it mainly because he’s not just going through the motions like your exes used to. No, not him. Harry will happily bury his face between your legs as if he’s a starved man.

Any and all thoughts in your head dissolve the instant the pad of Harry’s thumb brushes over your clit, sending a jolt straight to you. He holds your gaze, watching the pleasure ripple through your expression. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip to chase the lingering taste of you as he continues the tender assault on your sensitive bundle of nerves that soon has you writhing beneath his touch.

It’s almost embarrassing how quickly he’s gotten you to this point. How he’s not even inside of you yet, and if you let him, you could cum just like this. But you’re so wound up, so desperate to be filled more than anything that you don’t want that. You don’t want to prolong this. You couldn’t wait any longer.

“Want—want more, Harry, shit… fuck me. Please, fuck me,” you plead to him, and he stops, his fingers immediately pulling away, and damn it, is this how it felt for him when you took your hand off his cock just like that?

Harry flashes you a knowing smirk, but he doesn’t leave you hanging for long, though. He kisses you once more, this time unhurried. Softer. Much, much softer now, like he's kissing you simply because he wants to feel your lips on him again, to get his fill of it before his hands rest on your hips, gently coaxing you to turn and face the tiled walls behind you.

“Bend over a little for me, sweetheart. Hands on the wall— good, just like that. That’s my girl.” Harry guides you into a comfortable enough position, his voice thick as he speaks, nearly strained as though it bears the weight of his own arousal. He smooths his hand down the length of your spine, coasting along the curve of your ass where he squeezes the soft skin of it.

You hold your breath believing it might keep you from falling apart due to impatience, waiting for the heavy press of him against your entrance, the raw slide of hard flesh that makes you squirm at the intrusion. And it does. You feel the familiar flare of pressure as something sinks into you— a finger.

Then, another.

Harry couldn’t help himself. How could he when your dripping pussy is staring straight at him? Two of his fingers don’t fill you the same way his cock would, but at least your wishes have been granted somewhat.

Selfishly, you want more. Not this. More.

But when those two, thick digits delve in as far as they would go, it shuts you up long enough to get lost in the sensation. Harry doesn’t rush, and you’re too distracted by his skilled fingers working inside of you to protest. He crooks them just right, just enough that he’s pushing up against that spongy spot of yours that has you keening.

“Wanna make you come on my hand, my darling. Love the way you squeeze my fingers when you do.”

You shake your head deliriously. “On your cock, baby. I need your cock, been needing it so bad ever since I woke up.”

“You sure? We got all the time in the world for that—”

“Fuck me with your cock, Castillo,” you cut Harry off with a near growl, drawing an amused chuckle out of him. “Fuck me right now, or I swear I’ll just find somebody else—”

Your unserious threat is swallowed by the whine escaping you when Harry withdraws his fingers. Before you could recover from the loss, he’s gliding his length between your wet folds, the very tip of his cock nudging your swollen clit. The sudden contact makes you gasp and sway, your footing slips for a second, but his hands on your waist keep you firmly in place.

“Harry, please. Enough—no more teasing.”

“Shhh, it’s alright,” Harry croons, his hips shifting back the slightest, and you know what’s coming next. You’re sure of it this time. “Gonna take care of you now. Need you just as bad. Relax for me, baby.”

You suck in sharp breath, fingers flexing against the wall as the thick head of Harry's length breaches your cunt at last. He eases himself inside of you, inch by inch, so agonizingly slow that it drives you mad. He doesn't do this out of cruelty, but rather with a tenderness, making sure that he doesn't hurt you even if it feels like he's splitting you in half.

“F-Fuck honey, this pussy’s so tight for me,” Harry mutters through gritted teeth when he finally bottoms out, his fingers digging into your hip, allowing a few moments for you to adjust.

The stretch of him, the fullness Harry brings— fuck, it’s everything you’ve been aching for and more. You can’t explain how it’s possible, but somehow he feels even better right now. Maybe it’s from the build-up, the angle he’s got you in, or the way the warm air clings to your damp skin, amplifying every touch, every spark he sets alight within you.

Whatever it is, it has the nerves in your body pulsing to life, like a hot electric current running through your veins.

Harry holds onto your shoulder with one hand, the other splayed across your waist, and he starts to move inside of you. His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, reaching a depth that has your walls helplessly fluttering around him.

And he feels it, too. You know he does, because his pace picks up, knocking the air out of your lungs. His grip clamps down on you, not so much to maintain your balance this time, but to pull you back onto his cock as he pushes in, as if he couldn't get close enough.

"Fuck—don't stop. Just like that. Please, don't you dare fucking stop," you cry out, voice frayed at the edges. Your mind scatters with each snap of Harry's hips, which seemingly have grown much harder at your words, hitting the sweet spot that he had teased earlier over and over again.

“Never, baby,” he chokes out. “Never gonna stop. Feels too fucking good.”

The noises trapped within the walls are filthy and obscene. There's the wet, rhythmic squelch of Harry's cock driving into; the frantic slap of the front of his thighs against the back of yours. The lewd symphony of your strung-out whines and his deep, throaty groans.

If Harry had neighbors, they would have certainly loathed him. And you. Mostly you, with your loud, unabashed moans from being fucked into oblivion in every room, on every surface of his home.

“M’close, Harry,” you tell him as the burning warmth in your core begins to crescendo towards your peak.

Harry lets out a hiss when your cunt tightens its walls around him, like it's warning him of your fast-approaching climax in case he hadn't heard you the first time. "Keep squeezing me like that darling, and you're gonna make me cum too."

Your legs shake as Harry pounds into you with reckless abandon, his control slipping away as he chases his own release. But he won’t allow himself to fall before you do. He makes sure of that once his fingers land on your delicate clit, rubbing in tight circles, trying to time with his increasingly sloppy thrusts.

Glancing over your shoulder, you arch your spine as much as you can until his chest brushes against your back. Harry nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his scruff on his lower jaw scraping roughly against your skin.

“Need you to cum for me—fuck, baby cum now,” he urges, his tone wrecked, his restraint obvious. He’s right there with you on the edge, not letting go. Not yet. He couldn’t, wouldn’t.

But you do. You cum for Harry, the tension in your body snapping and unraveling all at once. You couldn't speak, not that any coherent thoughts were forming in your head. Not when the waves of pleasure come crashing down on you one after another, after another.

You barely hear the strangled groan behind you, nor register the way Harry’s hips stutter against you. Your pussy gushes around his shaft, clenching down on him hard, and that’s all it took. He buries himself to the hilt with a broken sigh of your name, his throbbing cock spilling deep inside of you, filling you up to the very brim.

Stillness passes over you and Harry. The shower is still running overhead, now the only sound in the room along with your tangled, labored breaths. He doesn’t pull out right away, and you’re glad he didn’t.

You allow this connection to remain for a minute or two more, before his softening length slips out without truly meaning to. A warm trickle of his seed slides down the inside of your leg, mixing with the rivulets of water on your skin, and you both share a hum at the sight.

Carefully, you shift your weight and turn, feeling the fresh new ache between your thighs. Harry’s heady eyes are already on you when you face him. His arms move instantly, pulling you flush against him, chest to chest, two hearts slowing down together to a calmer beat.

He kisses you tenderly, sweetly. The heat between you has now softened, like the burn of a fire that has settled into embers. It's moments like this where you look at Harry differently, as if he's not just a man you befriended after crossing paths one night, who, after finishing a bottle of Château Margaux, later became someone you seek out for relief.

Here, he’s… more. You don’t know how much more or why that is, and honestly, you’re terrified that this is currently crossing your mind.

“You okay there?” Harry asks quietly.

Pushing the confusing thought away, you're quick to nod and smile, brushing his wet hair back when it clings to his forehead. "Never better. Although, may I suggest investing in a shower bench? Could be helpful whenever we decide to fool around here."

He laughs lightheartedly. “Don’t worry, it’s already on my to-do list.”

“Good. It baffles me that your bathroom doesn’t already come with it, considering this penthouse cost you $12 million.”

“Why? Does your modest $5 million condo have one?”

“Duh, of course. It’s one of my non-negotiables. Makes shaving a lot easier, among other things.”

Harry shakes his head, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Guess that means we’re showering next at your place then.”

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” you reply with a soft chuckle. “You can see the benefits for yourself. Especially with your uh…”

You trail off, motioning to the healed scars running down the length of each of Harry's legs. He'd hidden them from you at first, choosing to have sex under the sheets, never letting you close enough to notice. But you did by accident some time ago, though you never asked where they were from. He's hesitant to share, still is, but you don't force him. You figure he’ll tell you once he’s ready, if and whenever that may be.

A gentle smile tugs at the corner of Harry’s mouth. “I’ll call up a contractor tomorrow. But for now, why don’t I wash you up before we head to bed?”

“You calling me dirty, Castillo?” You tease as he directs you closer under the spray of water. Undeniably, though, there’s something about the affection in his tone and his offer that has your heart stumbling.

“You are,” Harry smirks, taking his shampoo bottle from the nook and squeezing a generous amount of it into his hand. “You crashed my shower because you woke up horny. Almost got me off with just one hand, then you were begging to get fucked by my cock.”

You moan softly from both his retelling of events and the feeling of his hands in your hair, fingers lathering the shampoo into your scalp. Your eyes flutter shut as he massages your head, swaying just slightly from the motion of his hands.

The scent of cedar wood floods your senses—god, you’re not sure how you’ll make it through the entire day tomorrow smelling like Harry, feeling like you’re still wrapped in him completely.

“You always do this?” You question low, eyes peeking open after thoroughly rinsing the suds out of your hair. “Wreck a girl’s pussy then bathe her gently after?”

Harry reaches for the body wash. “Only you.”

You had half-expected him to give you a witty remark, but what came out of him instead carried a certain tenderness that’s becoming more and more familiar. It leads you to speculate whether he notices that, too.

A new kind of shiver sweeps down your spine as Harry glides his now soapy hands over you. He starts at your shoulders, moving down to your arms, then across your chest. There’s so much care when he circles your breasts, touching them not out of lust, but with something very sincere. Intimate. He later bends down a bit to reach the inside of your thighs, brushing clean the remnants of your mixed release there.

By the time Harry rinses you one last time, your chest aches in a way that has nothing to do with sex, but everything to do with him.

“This feels… oddly domestic.” The words tumble out unintentionally as Harry switches the shower off. You wait too long to take it back, and you can’t explain what you mean by that either.

You might have offended Harry when he doesn't respond right away, just pushes the shower door, and grabs a towel hanging nearby. He spends the stretch of silence drying you off before he bundles the cotton fabric around your body, tucking it at your chest.

Afterwards, he steps out of the stall, reaching for a second towel to quickly pat himself dry. He wraps it low around his hips and shifts back to you, extending a hand out, palm up. His fingers close gently around yours, guiding you forward— out of the warmth and into the cool air that raises goosebumps on your skin.

Then came his voice, much softer than you’re used to. The sound of it twists in your gut. “You didn’t like it?”

“No, I mean— yes. Yeah, I liked it. It was really… nice,” you ramble, struggling to find the right words to say here. But your answer was the truth. “Sorry, just not used to it, that's all.”

“Me neither,” Harry whispers. There’s a flicker of understanding in his warm gaze, and it swirls with something that you couldn’t quite pin a name to, or perhaps you’re simply not ready to. “It felt… nice. Doing that—for you.”

You fall into silence once more, though this time it rests lighter on your shoulders. A smile blossoms across your lips when you notice Harry still staring at you, looking as if you’re not a luxury, but a rarity—the one thing in this world his money can’t buy.

The lines between the two of you are blurred now. At least to you, they were. You wonder at what point it all changed. Or maybe it had been a slow, gradual shift, and it's only begun to catch up to you.

Either way, you and Harry were never meant to be this close. Purely sex, that was the deal. But now…

Now, he’s kissing you again, each brush of his lips demanding nothing more than you can give. You can taste the faintest trace of you on his tongue when he weaves it into your mouth, coaxing a pleased sigh from you that he drinks in without pause.

Then, Harry pulls away for a breath, his forehead resting against yours. You couldn’t remember what you’d been thinking or why it even mattered. Your mind, so noisy several moments ago, has gone blissfully blank.

You know without a doubt that it’s all because of him.

“Is this too much?” Harry asks, the weight of the question hanging in the air.

"No," comes your answer. You say the following words almost as if they hold something fragile. "It's perfectly enough for me."

Soft and slow, you press your lips to Harry’s again—and it would make you the richest woman on earth if you could just stay this way for as long as he’ll keep you close.

—

➥ MASTERLIST

[jjlevin]

Wow this is written so beautifully🤍