I love the idea of the drink menu for the requests! It's brilliant ✨️
Could I please get an Old Fashioned, salt rim, neat? Take your time 💋
[ “no, no, leave your clothes on for me.” + smut + az ]
thank you so much for the request and being patient with me 💕💕the vibe of this one is giving situationship that yearns to be more, been watching too much scandal🫣
-> BLURB BAR <-
—
You’d learned pretty early on in life that asking for forgiveness was better than begging for permission.
It was just easier, usually made things less complicated which is why you significantly downplay the importance of the dress purchase that had half a dozen seamstresses prattling about your bedchambers. One of them promptly shoos Azriel away once they notice him eyeing the divider you strip behind, ushering him up and out of the doorway. He’s adjusting his pants when the door shuts behind him, vividly recalling the glimpse all that tight fabric and the way it cinches at your waist, accentuating the full curves concealed beneath. It leaves him hungry; wanting—salivating like starved wolves that scavenge through the Middle for mere scraps.
“Hot date?”
Azriel’s brows furrow, still a little dizzy from the sight of you and your lingering scent; his body annoyingly attuned to your own. “No, why?”
Rhys lazily points in the direction of your room, eyes trained on the array of chilled whiskeys at the bar cart before him. “The dress she’s wearing is designer—exclusive; one of a kind. Need to book an appointment a year in advance as well as having a good word with the owner type exclusive.”
“So?”
“So,” Polished crystal clacks heavily against metal, one, two, three ice cubes fall inside before a hefty pour of some smoky whiskey that’s been sitting around longer than you’d been alive. “They don’t sell a single dress without taking specific measurements for alterations, making multiple appointments for fittings.” The lack of response makes Rhys turn, fingers brushing at the crease in his dress shirt as he takes his brother in. Hazel eyes are clouded with curiosity, a million possibilities being pinned up on a board as the hunter within him collects pieces of a puzzle. “My point is, no male in his right mind lets the woman he wants go out in a dress like that without having some sort of claim on her first.”
Suddenly, it makes sense why people of power are urged to be of sound mind; to have a level head so that advice like that didn’t send one into a spiral.
Azriel quickly learns that he is not of sound mind. A harsh truth that he realizes seconds after Rhys leaves him alone to settle with those words. They echo in his brain, repeating in his mind like some curse that’s dead set on haunting him.
Sure, the two of you hadn’t exactly put a title on all the secret moments spent scuffling off to some dark corner for a few frenzied kisses. The times where group nights at Rita’s leaves two bodies disappearing out back for his hands to hike up some skimpy dress enough to get a good grip of your ass. But that alone had to count for something at least, didn’t it?
No way some other male would get the chance to see you how Azriel did, right? His hands twitch at the uncertainty—jealousy lighting a fire in his ass that has him bee-lining it to your room like he fucking owns the place.
It’s almost comical, the way your door bounces off the wall under the pressure of his palm once he’s finally reached it. Too bad he’s too honed in on his target to take in the true humor of six attentive ladies shooting daggers at the towering interruption that keeps making your arms fidget or hips shift while they try to work. “Az?”
“We need to talk.”
“Oh, can it wait? They’re nearly finished with the—“
“No, I’m sorry. It needs to be now, it’s urgent.” Shadows are already following their masters will, urging the ladies out of the room and into the hall, the door shutting before their disgruntled words could breech the barrier. He turns, a speech brewing at the tip of his tongue but it all goes blank when he looks at you—really looks at you. “Wow, you look….wow.”
You preen under the attention, one arm holding up the bodice as you give him a spin. “I just knew when I saw it, it had to be mine.” There’s a few loose threads, buttons waiting in a little dish to the side to be sewn on properly but he gets the gist. Fully understands the intent of such fabrics when he sees it holding onto the shape of your curves. “Fits like a glove.”
“I can see that.” Grace is granted when you fully return to face the mirror, too entranced in the little details to even notice the way Azriel eats up the picture you paint. All soft lines and pretty shadows casted by the flickery golden light emitting from the candles you favor. Warm notes of vanilla and honeysuckle fill his nose and he commits every bit to memory; latching on to whatever he can of you. “A little skimpy for Starfall, don’t you think? Or is there a matching coat I’m not seeing?”
The cutting look you throw his way is felt through the reflective glass. “I’d never waste a dress like this on a familial event.” A neat brow raises as you carry on with your hair, hands holding it in a pony. Twisting it into a neat bun. Letting it all free and tousling it messily, lips pouting at the sexy bed head texture it creates.
“Then, what’s it for?”
“To get laid.”
Raw jealousy is injected into Azriel’s veins faster than he can even comprehend the attack. It shoots through his bloodstream, gobbling up all sensiblities while simultaneously planting seeds of doubt. Every inch of him goes rigid, lids narrowing and pupils dilating. Acid pools on his tongue, singeing through the words he speaks, “What gave you the impression that anyone else could touch you while you’re fucking me?”
“Oh, I don’t know—maybe, it’s the lack of exclusivity?” Mascara is brushed through your lashes. Lipgloss smeared across supple lips. “Or maybe it’s because I’m just too fucking pretty to be always second guessing why you won’t make a move already.”
A muscle ticks along his jaw, “I thought it was obvious enough that you and I—you belong to be.”
“Says who?” He abhors the way you laugh around your words. “Because, that conversation doesn’t ring a bell.”
Azriel’s shoulders shift, frustration lingering in his stance and you find yourself annoyingly attracted to the entitled way he begins to fill up the space of your room. Outside shoes sink into the soft plush of your rugs until he’s standing behind you, one finger flicking at your dress as if it were personally offending him. “Says me.”
A scoff passes glossy lips, a hand waving absently in his direction as if shooing off an insect. “Save the brutish male bullshit for a female who favors it. This dancing around your feelings thing is growing tiresome and borderline pathetic.”
You’ve gone too far.
The absence of his reply makes you sure of that. Too many seconds pass in silence, long enough for the mood to grow awkward. Lips part and close, the heat in Azriel’s stare too ambiguous to go off of.
Fingers fiddle with dainty gold rings held snug against your knuckle. “Az, I’m—“
“—In need of some clarification, it seems.” Every syllable comes out alarmingly even, forcing the hairs on the back of your neck to stand at attention. “Go to the bed and bend over.”
“…is this a joke?” You question over a tense laugh.
Not a single thing about him indicates so. “Does it feel like one?” He leaves no room for a response, jaw jutting out towards the bed. “Bend over.”
You swallow thickly, moving to comply while shimmying the dress down your torso.
“No.” Azriel’s voice cuts through like an arrow through the night, shadows curling around the curve of your shoulder, teasing through your hair. Goosebumps kiss your flesh, neck craning as your body melts to mush under his attention. “Leave your clothes on for me. You spent so much money,” Every step he takes is as silent as a whisper; the only way you can tell he’s directly behind you is because of the foot that nudges between your ankles, widening your stance. “Let me appreciate it how it deserves, yeah?”
He’s not really asking for a response but you nod along either way.
Anticipation burns beneath your skin, warms your belly, makes toes curl in expensive shoes when you hear the shift of his clothes as he crouches down to his knees. Shadows hold up the hem of your dress, preventing you from seeing exactly what Az is doing, but your imagination fills in the blanks when you feel his breath against the back of your thighs. "Pretty," The muscles in your legs jump at his touch, cool fingertips trailing up your calves, squeezing at the thickness of upper thighs while running his thumb under the fat of your ass.
You get the feeling he isn't referring to the intricate lace detailing or near invisible line along the side that concealed the zipper running from hip to rib. Not when he spreads you open, a deep hum rumbling in his chest at the wet sound of your cunt separating beneath thin cotton.
“Now there’s a warm welcome,” A hooked finger peels it away, revealing bare sex and dripping arousal. Calloused skin dragging against a sensitive clit has your hips jumping at the sudden attention.
Teeth bite at supple lips, a moan crooning free as pleasure licks up your spine—it’s not enough. You shift from foot to foot, heels forcing a strain in your hamstrings while bent over in this position but Azriel doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. “Beating around the bush, as usual.” He’s perfectly content exploring around with your sex, circling around your clit and teasing his fingers into a warm hole that all but weeps in rejoice at the attention.
“Don’t rush me.” Your throat rolls with a thick swallow at the authority in his tone, brows pinched with pleasure as he works you open. “A male can spend all day tinkering away with his toys if that’s what he pleases. Don’t you agree?”
It should bother you more that Azriel plays fucking dirty.
He’s just daring you to deny him while he’s got you so exposed—so vulnerable. Fingers abusing at a sensitive spot that has your legs shaking and pelvis bulging a little at the intrusion. Arousal pools in his palm, fingers coaxing your mind to mush; pulverizing all the fight you have as he works you to your high.
“Yes!” You all but shout, back arching into the orgasm that washes over you. Incoherent little babbles follow, choppy encouragements and whispered pleas for reprieve but all Azriel can hear is ‘yesyesyes’ ‘yoursyoursyours’.
Someone of his own to covet. To kiss and love and fuck and ruin.
Something like satisfaction coats his cadence. “I knew you’d see it my way.”
[lol a lil bonus part i couldn’t make fit but refused to delete]
“Pathetic, hm?”
A satisfied grin spreads along flushed cheeks, hair messy and lipgloss smudged. “You do your best work when provoked.” Something like realization bleeds back into your eyes and in seconds you’re flailing from his arms, slipping off the mattress and using the discarded dress as coverage when you rush to the door.
There’s a few seams loose, string hanging out haphazardly and wrinkles all over but your smile is bright—damn near dopey when you drop a thick velvet bag in their palm. “Final payment plus tip—the dress is perfect.”
“It’s ruined!”
“Trust me,” Fabric whispers as it moves, legs shuffling to tuck your frame better behind the door. “It served its purpose.”
Hii could I please get a neat Moscow mule with a salt rim ❤️
🧉here you go 💗💗
[ “i don’t like the way he / she looks at you” + smut + az ]
-> BLURB BAR <-
There had always been whispers about Illyrian males and the possessive streak that scorches its way through their veins. How it awakened with their first cry at birth and remains until their last breath.
You’d never thought you’d witness it firsthand.
Seeing that shift in Azriel’s features is unmistakable. The comfortable lines of his stoicism usually rests heavy along his brow bone, casting shadows along his eyes until the rich amber of his iris is stark in contrast. Even then, you’re used to seeing some semblance of warmth residing in there but the danger lingering within them now is staggering—forces the object of his surveillance to raise a hand to the back of their neck, eyes scanning the crowd for the culprit.
Az is too good to be caught though. Too skilled to be seen. A wolf that blends in seamlessly in a crowd full of sheep and he detects it immediately when another predator is present. “Who is that?”
You follow his line of sight, grumbling in distaste almost instantly when you notice that familiar tuft of curly blonde hair. “Tyson,” His brow raises at your tone, stance sturdy and arms crossed over his chest. You can feel the heat radiating off of him; briefly acknowledging the sentient shadows that nudge you in closer, partially hiding you behind his bulk. Protecting what they deemed as theirs. “—but all the Valkyrie’s call him tick.”
“Tick.”
“Yeah,” Your head nods along in confirmation, fingers hooking in the loops of your leathers to shimmy them up higher on your hips. “‘Cause he latches on like one—damn near impossible to shake.”
There’s a brief pause, a rumble of a noise vibrating through his chest like a lion in wait that rests on its haunches. Azriel’s prey drive is triggered, specially attuned to the way Tyson leans casually against a post, blue eyes trained on you while you warm up, taking time admiring the way your leathers fit like second skin. “I don’t like the way he looks at you.”
He’s skilled with a sword, Az notes, but that wandering eye is sure to get him killed. The shadowsinger can feel the way his fingers form into fists when Tyson’s gaze meanders down the slope of your back and settles around the generous curve of your ass. It wobbles temptingly as you practice, core tight and form stunning as all sorts of daggers are shot through the air at warp speed.
Every blade hits its respective bullseye.
You're one hell of a prize. One that Tyson so foolishly thinks he’s good enough to win.
Shoulders square, feet apart, knees ever so slightly bent. Even breaths as you line up the next blade, eying where you wish for it to land. "How does he look at me?"
"Like he wants to fuck you."
You pray he doesn't notice the way your body freezes in place, grip faltering on the hilt of your dagger. A thick swallow, throat clumsily clearing and lashes fluttering with nerves as you make a point to keep your face forward. "How would you know what that looks like?"
"Because, I want to fuck you." Thighs clench at the flippant way he says it—so casually. Like it's common knowledge. As if he hasn't just rendered you speechless and filled you full of want off one sentence alone. The smell of him engulfs you when he closes the distance, his chest to your back. Shadows teasing at the sides of your thighs like phantom palms that waste no time memorizing the new terrain. "You're holding that wrong."
"Am I?" More intelligent words are robbed right off of your tongue when he presses against you, the weight of his growing erection digging into your spine, teasing around the dimples that rest right above your ass. You can't help but lean into him, allowing him to adjust your fingers around the daggers hilt.
Never once had you thought such a simple touch could ignite this kind of spark within you. A fire that damn near burns you alive; it begins in the pit of your stomach, gnawing at organs and muscle, tearing through soft tendons and sinew in its desperation for release. "Like this, baby." His lips graze the curve of your ear, forcing goosebumps to assault your skin.
Azriel doesn't adjust a thing about your form. Instead, he openly gropes at the fat of your hips. Slides his palm possessively over the soft swell of your abdomen. Trails a hand up the crease of your breasts until a five finger grip is curling its way around your throat. "What are you doing?" You whisper, craning your neck to provide more access. Allowing the steady pressure squeezing at your jugular.
He's putting on one hell of a show.
Staring that blonde bastard right in the eye as he drags his nose along your temple, pressing his lips against your skin just because he can. "Pest control." A thick thigh nudges its way between your legs, the bulk of Azriel's body blocking you from all peering eyes but one.
Tyson vibrates with rage as Az guides your hips, dragging your clothed cunt along solid muscle until lids flutter and lips part. It's an agonizing kind of pleasure—one that's everything and nothing at the same time. Stimulating but not fully satisfying when you really crave the turgid length of his cock that strains against his leathers.
It takes a second too long to realize that he's not really doing this with your pleasure in mind.
He barely pays you any real attention as discreet shadows creep under your top to twist at taut nipples, squeezing and pulling until the heartbeat in your chest travels all the way down to your pussy.
No, he merely uses you as a pawn. Plucking and toying, licking and biting at the junction of your neck until all that can be scented on you is arousal and Illyrian. "Az, I'm gonna—"
"Not yet, sweet thing. Want him to look at you when you cum for me."
I love the blurb bar idea and I loved the pina colada one, how about a neat gin n tonic with a salt rim?
[ forced proximity: “you can’t seriously be insinuating that i should sit on your lap.” + smut + az ]
guys i got carried away 🫣🤭 but at least it’s finished and has minimal spelling errors 🤍🩷
-> BLURB BAR <-
To put it quite frankly, you and Azriel didn’t really get along.
It seemed almost easy for everyone else in the Inner Circle to latch onto him; to gravitate towards him and all his shadowy mysteriousness—but not you. Between his victim complex, lack of self-control and the inability to properly communicate his feelings like a normal person, you’d lost your patience for him long ago.
Maybe that’s why you laugh right in Rhysand’s face after he lays down the guidelines for your temporary deployment to the Steppes. Everything sounds perfectly normal up until the end when Rhysand’s lips form the words, “—and you’ll be going with Azriel; he’s already been briefed.”
“Very funny,” Shoulders shake through your laughter, tickled from the joke. “But, you don’t have to go to such lengths just to make me laugh Rhys.”
Your grin fades comically fast and the deep frown that takes it place doesn’t falter long after you’ve left the High Lord’s office and scrounged back to your own chambers to pack. Every move is mechanical, clothes being folded and stuffed away a little rougher than necessary as you try not to think about having to spend seven whole days holed up in a creaky cabin with some brooding bat.
To be fair, Azriel seems no happier than you about the situation, his signature brood securely in place when you meet on the balcony at the witching hour with bag in hand. “Come—let’s get this over with.”
You refrain from commenting on his attitude; hold yourself back from snapping when he snatches your duffle from your grasp just to watch it disappear in a puff of sentient shadow. They’d almost be cute—Azriel’s shadows—if they weren’t so fucking useless. Capable of procuring intel and acting as camouflage but can’t manage to hold two fae long enough to get them to the Illyrian mountains.
No, instead you were subjected to this. Close contact and his fucking hands holding onto your body as he flies on a route you’re unfamiliar with. You eye his wings cautiously, trying to be subtle when you peek over the strong line of his shoulder but being this close? He can feel every beat of your heart against your sternum. Every squirm and twitch of a limb as you try to find a more comfortable place to put your arm. “Will you stop moving?”
“I can’t help it,” Hips shift once more, one leg hitching just a little higher on his hip. “Your fucking daggers keep poking me.”
Azriel tenses up, muscles locking and suddenly you’re being moved how he pleases—both legs wrapped around his waist and a firm forearm clasped around the base of your spine. “Stay.” His voice is rougher than your used to, his blunt nails biting into the sliver of skin exposed to the elements. “Don’t move, we’re almost there.”
That was a lie—it would take hours to make it to the Steppes but the gruff command is surprisingly easy to follow. And while you’ll never verbally admit it, the secure bracketing of his arms around your body was more of a comfort than a nuisance. It’s all too easy to ease into his grasp, allowing sleep to take over until the journeys over and you swear you can feel him cradle you in closer, his nose ghosting over the crown of your head.
He makes absolutely no comment on it when you finally arrive with your hair ruffled, clothes crinkled and the imprint of Azriel’s syphon on your cheek other than a chuffed out, “You snore.”
Instinct screams at you to make some snappy comment back but reason doesn’t allow it to be voiced—not here. Here, you and Azriel would have to appear as a united front, for the males raised in this terrain were bred to sniff out any and all weaknesses to exploit. Only here do you allow the hand that permanently glues itself to the dip of your back, pushing you past rabid animals swollen with pride and snarling with hatred.
Slurs are spat from their lips but Azriel doesn’t pay them any mind, so you don’t either.
He walks through the camps as if he owns them, spine straight and shoulders square. Strong wings stand proudly behind him, shadows guarding your flank until the unforgiving chill is replaced by the stuffy warmth of a mess hall. It’s cramped—a little dirty and smells like a mixture of male and tobacco but either way you’re given a warm meal and fresh water to drink.
The vulgar comments grow more frequent, mutterings of their unwanted appreciation towards your body so sickening that your appetite threatens to scurry away. “They’re disgusting.” You scoff, setting down your tray of food, one hand curled around the chair.
It doesn’t give. Azriel’s boot curled around the leg holds it in place. Arched brows furrow at him, nose scrunching under the effort it takes not to kick him in his shin but there’s something about his body language that make you stop. “They’ll keep doing that shit if they think you’re free game.” Every syllable is clipped; laced with a wildness you’re unfamiliar with—almost as if he’s insinuating that it’s your fault that such brutish males were salivating at the sight of you. Darkness cloaks the hazel tones of his eyes when he meets your own and you nearly miss the gesture he makes.
One hand patting twice at his lap.
“Absolutely not.” Azriel’s boot shoves the seat away completely when you make a move to sit down on it once more. He settles deeper in his own, thick thighs manspreading as deft hands adjust the positioning of his holsters, guiding sharpened weapons away from the area of space he frees up for you. “You can’t seriously be insinuating that I should sit on your lap?”
“I’m not insinuating anything, this is me telling you—sit down.”
You pray he doesn’t see the blush that burns against your cheeks when you take a seat in his lap, his hands resting along the sides of your hips. He keeps eating as if nothing is new. As if he doesn’t realize the way his touch has you squirming against solid muscle through thick leathers, legs subconsciously parting to make more room for the wandering fingers that slide down your thighs, digging into sensitive inner thighs. “What are you doing?” You ask, barely able to grab at the food before you with the way your hands shake.
“I’m sending a message.”
Breath catches when you feel Azriel’s thigh flex between your legs, pressing against your sex in such a way that you’re certain it’s impossible that he hadn’t felt the way you clench in response. “What kind of message?”
“The kind that says someone already owns you.” People are looking, that much you know—can feel their eyes tracking every move. Azriel’s hand splayed over your stomach, his head tucked in the curve of your shoulder as his free hand spies its way through your breeches. There’s a pause, one where you’re time to push him away, to declare that this was entirely too far and smack him clear across his face.
That doesn’t happen. Your legs only part further, making more room for needy fingers to shove past your panties.
It’s a foolish decision, you can feel it the second you make it. As if you’d just unconsciously confirmed the ridiculous notion that you were one of Azriel’s possessions. To do as he pleased. To sit there splayed out across his lap like some puppet and allow him to take the reins and show off all your tricks until you’re boneless and drooling.
He’s too good with his hands. Too slick with the sly filth he mutters into your ear as he fondles at your clit under the table, pressing firm circles into the bundle of nerves until you’re panting like a bitch in heat.
You barely remember how much you hate him when he touches you like this. Until the orgasm fades and your consciousness clears and even though the way you lean into the dip of his neck appears like some typical lovers embrace—bystanders fail to hear the sharp way you sneer, “Tell anyone about this ever and I’ll fucking kill you.”
I would like to order a Vodka Cranberry neat please, with a salt rim and add a lime if that’s allowed please 👀😏🫶🏼
if that’s allowed? honey we all know by now i will ride the angst train until the wheels fall off🫡
[ “why do you even care?” “because i do” + smut/angst + az ]
-> BLURB BAR <-
“Will you—will you just stop for a second and listen to me?”
“That’s all I ever do, Az.” The words wobble, a combination of anger and sadness ruining its stability. Tears stream down your face, staining the silk of your dress and smearing makeup that took you entirely too long to perfect. “Listen to you and all your bullshit promises that you never fucking keep.”
His stealth is frustrating but not more than the pure self-hatred that brews when you can’t fight the desire to glance over your shoulder; foolishly allowing your chest to bloom with heat when you realize he was following you.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore.
He promised to stay away.
Too dangerous, he said. Worried for your safety, he insisted.
Refused to be responsible for the guilt that would ensue if something horrid ever happened to you; a truth he can’t confess but you’re well versed in reading between the lines.
“I know, I’m sorry—just please hear me out. Put me out of my fucking misery because I can’t keep watching you go out with males who don’t even deserve to share your air.”
If you weren’t so hurt, maybe your mind would’ve latched onto the last part of his sentence rather than the first. “Put you out of your misery?” The harsh click of your heels on cobblestone halts so abruptly it makes Azriel bump into you a little. Bare arms brush against the sturdy material of his leathers as they cross over your chest, goosebumps staved off by the steady warmth he radiates and you pretend that’s why you don’t create more distance. “Why do you even care?”
You’re not sure to really even want the answer.
Certain, it won’t be good enough.
After everything Azriel had put you through, this never ending game of tug of war. Giving you an inch only for him to rear back and snatch a mile. Your expectations are unrealistic; a soldier hanging up his sword just for you.
“Because, I do.”
And yet, you still amuse the possibility.
Dusting off your hands and re-familiarizing yourself with the burn of rope in your grasp before taking a sharp, experimental tug.
Bodies gravitate closer like magnets, attempting to resist until the pull becomes too much.
Your heart hammers in your chest, silence filling the air for one, two, three whole seconds before the collision happens. Your lips against his own; a frenzy of a kiss where you can’t really tell if your hands are running through his hair or tracing down the strong line of his neck and shoulders just to feel him or just to remember.
All hard lines and harsh breaths as tongues grow reacquainted. The pathetic little whimper he lets out when nails scratch along the back of his neck, a bite that toes the line of too much. “Shouldn’t matter to you who I date.”
It only makes him hold you tighter, tugging your hips in closer. “I know it shouldn't.” His words muffle against your mouth, too stubborn or too selfish to pull away for even a second—not when he's finally gotten you close. “But, it still does." Shadows stretch forward, cloaking you in darkness; shielding you from the hopeless male you'd left back at the restaurant, as if they feared he'd come stumbling out in search of you.
They make it clear that you're already taken; trapped even, by a male too greedy to allow even a drop of you be spilled. Azriel's tongue trails down the length of your neck, nose nuzzling in the inviting scent of your body oils. Memorizing parts of you he’d thought long forgotten.
A mole here. Scars there. Soft pudge that warms him down to the marrow when pressed against his hardness. “You can’t just keep following me around.”
Following was a light way of putting it—stalking was more right.
His figure looming in your blind spots, lingering around corners and watching like a hawk that’s locked onto its prey. Your routine is committed to memory from the moment your fire tokes in the morning to the bakery you stop by in the middle of the week for a slice of fresh key lime pie. A reward for refraining from replying to his letters or pointedly ignoring the stunning floral display that arrives on your porch every week like clockwork. “Can’t stop even if I wanted to. Not when I know you’re out with someone who can’t even make you laugh.”
“At least they don’t make me cry.” Damn you for leaning in closer, basking in that familiar brood and the masculine musk that sends all five senses into a fritz. A defeated sigh escapes you when you melt to mush under his palms; too vulnerable to lie. “It’s easier with them.”
“Easy’s overrated.” He’s kneading at the swell of your hips until bravery grows or restraint snaps and he’s pawing at handfuls of your ass. Guiding you back until you can feel rough brick catching on strands of your hair. “Boring too—bet he wouldn’t have been able to make you cum. Even if he actually tried.”
Takes everything in you not to bite back. Especially because Azriel’s sort of right but admitting that out loud is more humiliating than your body just giving it away. By now, he has to feel the frantic pulse of your jugular under his tongue. “Maybe I should go back and find out.”
If his warning growl doesn’t send shivers down your spine, the nip of his teeth on such sensitive flesh does. “I dare you to try.”
A challenge that comes with stipulations.
Skillful hands work their way under your dress, teasing at soft thighs until his knuckles are bumping against lace—it locks you in place. Azriel lets out a mean chuckle when you hike one leg up on his hip, spreading yourself wide; presenting yourself instead of running away like you should.
It just feels so good.
Lower lips are spread wide, dripping with slick as two thick fingers glide through with ease. Azriel knows his way around, just barely dipping into a greedy hole before retreating only to tap at an achy bundle of nerves so he can see the desperate jolt of your hips. “No,” He speaks more so for himself than you, too occupied with prying you open and feeling your arousal pool in his palm. “You wouldn’t do that. Probably haven’t had a cock in this cunt since that last time I filled it—feels just as tight as I left it.”
If the nights chill wasn’t nipping at bared skin, you know your blush would’ve burned all the way down your chest. “Trust me, it’s not for lack of trying.”
You shouldn’t have said that. Probably wouldn’t have if Azriel’s thumb wasn’t working perfectly against your clit, calloused fingers rubbing against slick inner walls, abusing nooks and cranny’s that leave your knees buckling. “Don’t you know that you can’t give away a pussy that doesn’t belong to you?” Salacious sounds squelch between your thighs, head thrown back and eyes rolling in your skull as Az takes and takes; unlocking the doors to your sex and greeting it with a warm welcome. “Not if I still own it.”
Honesty hurts sometimes; blindsides you with its brutality. Catches you off guard in the sporadic way in which it unleashes itself without providing an anchor to hold onto for stability.
“I just don’t understand,” Azriel’s words slur around the consonants, scarred fingers lazily curled around a weeping crystal glass half fulled with some top shelf whiskey. “Why doesn’t anyone I want, want me back?”
The casual confession hits you like a head-on collision; tissues bruising and bones snapping, blood spewing and whiplash forcing your vision to blur from the impact. The aftermath is devastating, the accessing of your injuries leading you to a conclusion in an instant.
You’d survive but at great cost.
Pieces of you would be missing, scars would be left behind and you mourn the death of a hope that such a male would ever reciprocate your feelings. All too soon does that foolish dream wither away like flowers without water, your happy buzz fading out into the background until the music’s bass begins to sound less exciting and more overwhelming. “I’ll be right back.”
Mor observes silently, picking up on the shift in your mood, the shake of your hands and the wobble of your chin even as you flash a comforting smile. “I’ll come with you.”
“No,” You’re too quick to scoop up your clutch and lucky enough to have the end seat that aids in your hasty escape. “I just need a moment.”
The High Lord’s cousin watches you rush through the sea of dancing bodies with a frown. Elbows dig into weathered wood when she sends a disappointed glare the spymasters way, frustration lacing her tone when she snaps, “Are you really so oblivious?”
Confusion clouds Azriel’s golden eyes, handsome features scrunching up more animatedly in his inebriation. Lights cast shadows over the line of his nose, accentuating the shape of his brow and fullness of his mouth. “I don’t know what you—“
“She loves you, you idiot.” A few silver coins are fished out of Mor’s purse, long hair flicking back behind her shoulder when they’re neatly laid on the table as payment. “She has always loved you.”
someone requested [ Manhattan + salt rim + neat ] and I accidentally deleted it but i remembered!!
warnings: leashes (yup like for dogs 🤭) minors dni, thank you thank you thank you thank you for this request 🥵
—
Azriel knew it was going to be an issue—you spending so much time with Nesta Archeron.
He’d found it cute at first. His sweet girl making friends with someone as prickly as death incarnate, until he’d started noticing the changes. How kind words shift into a biting wit; adopting a darker kind of humor that leaves his brows raised and tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. “Come bunny, it’s time to get out of bed.”
Perhaps it’s in that learned behavior where you find the gall to part your lips and mutter, “No, I’m not going.”
It’s surprising—your defiance. Enough for him to pause in the middle of his morning routine, thigh holsters half buckled with an array of sharpened daggers and switchblades laid out before him. “Say that again?”
“To training,” You elaborate, mindlessly toying with the fraying edges of your nail varnish. Soft sheets swallow you whole, thick pillows and duvets emitting Azriel’s comforting scent all around you. “I’m not going today.”
For only a second he falters before his movements start up again, deft fingers easily buckling strips of leather and filling the slots with weapons. “Are you not feeling well?”
“I’m feeling like I don’t want to sweat under the burning sun all fucking day.” Your eyes are too busy rolling at the thought to notice the tick of Azriel’s jaw, the strained way he tightens his belt. “Nes and I are going shopping after brunch instead.”
“Oh?” There’s a pause, a tense silence that forces you to lean up on your elbows, neck craning to peer over at the Illyrian. Though, Azriel’s not getting ready anymore and he’s lounging too comfortably for someone who’d been adamant on following the guidelines of his rigorous schedule. The clock tick, tick, ticks away and for some reason he’s not reaching for his top or the crossbody holsters he slides on after. His hair is still dripping wet from his shower, not even bothering to work his styling pomade through. “Says who?”
He just sits there—watching, waiting. Staring at you like one of the prisoners he chains up in his dungeons; prodding at the barriers of their restraint until the spymaster tore it to shreds. You hate how well it works, chipping away at the fortified walls you’d built in your new friendships. How easily Azriel’s able to walk up to those borders and send them crumbling down with nothing more than a look.
It should be embarrassing, the affect he has on you. The way one arched brow has your spine instinctively straightening, throat rolling with a swallow as you struggle to muster up the same confidence that burned through you just moments ago. “I wasn’t aware I needed permission.”
Azriel hums low in his chest, shoulders relaxing and head nodding once, twice, three times before that stoic expression melts into understanding. “I see, that’s probably my fault. Got a touch lenient—allowed room for a little too much…hope.”
“Hope?”
Alarm bells begin ringing the further he settles in the chair, thick thighs spreading wide and veiny forearms eat up the space along the armrest. “Hope,” he agrees. “Give a good pet a little too much freedom—too much hope and all the necessary structure begins to waver.” You’re caught like a fly in a trap, limbs sticking to the carefully spun webs Az’s woven until your struggle only leaves the metaphorical ropes twisting and knotting tighter. “Don’t worry, I’m a good trainer. Won’t let you slack for a second—even if you do bat those pretty lashes up at me.”
Your mouth goes dry when his wrist flicks, two fingers beckoning you closer in silent command. A part of you hesitates; resists the rigorous discipline and rules put in place to keep you safe. Protected. But Nesta said that you were perfectly capable of protecting yourself without some overgrown bat looming over your shoulder. Right?
You obey anyway, praying that Azriel doesn’t hold the contemplation against you.
The Mother doesn’t seem to hear your plea, too occupied with more deserving persons to spare a second glance at the predicament you’d weaseled your way into. Each step closer feels like knowing wrong and choosing the sin anyway, solidifying your fate and dealing your destiny with the devil for all time. “Sit.”
A huffy breath of irritation before you ease down to your knees, leaning your weight back against your calves. “I’m not some fucking dog.”
“No, you aren’t,” His hand smells of body wash when a thumb runs over the curve of your cheek, blunt nail tracing against the shape of your mouth. It’s almost sweet, toeing the line of possibly romantic when you hear it—the squeaky strain of fresh leather. The cool bite of the latch registers too late, a metallic click locking it in place. “But lately you’ve been acting like one. My rabid mutt.”
Manicured nails grip at the newest accessory but it doesn’t budge no matter how much you tug at it. Your cheeks flame, a mix of fury and pure embarrassment from the rush of arousal that soils your panties when each breath grows just a bit labored. “You fucking collared me?”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll buy a muzzle to match.” He catches on to the way your thighs clench together, lips snapping shut as your brain fights to decide whether you want to scream back a “fuck you” or “fuck me”.
You land somewhere in the middle, words stern but tone leaking with curiosity. “You wouldn’t dare.”
A hellish grin splits across the handsome lines of his face, like a wolf straining in the seams of sheep’s clothing. “Try me.” He’s lost the concept to time when such fun prey has found itself stuck in his crosshairs. Such a sweet lamb should know better than to wander away from its shepherd—heaven forbid something should happen to you. “Test me, I dare you. I’ll walk you through town like some purebred if you keep acting like you weren’t taught to act with decorum.”
He means it too. You know he does. Even after all these years, you still had yet to hear words Azriel’s didn’t back up with action. Instantly, your eyes lower, head bowing in order to conceal the pinpricked pupils that dialate with desire. It burns in your belly, a cacophony of fantasies lashing against your eyelids at warp speed.
You in your shiny collar, name engraved on the customized nameplate with Azriel’s information on the back right under “If Found, Return To”
It’s purely involuntary, the desperate whimper that cuts through the bedchambers and Azriel pats at your head like some pampered pup in need of comfort. Offering love and fond coos when you easily correct the behaviors he doesn’t enjoy.
Obedient. Disciplined. Loyal. His.
“There’s a good girl. Keep that up and I’ll give you a treat.”
Can I have a margarita with a salt rim? Neat please 🤪
warning: alluding to smut bc sometimes actually writing the smut is boooringggg 🤭
-> BLURB BAR <-
[ “got quite a mouth on you. someone should teach you how to use it” + smut + az ]
Trouble had a funny fucking way of finding you.
You weren’t sure how you were going to explain your way out of this. It was just supposed to be some light training—testing the limits of a power within you that had only just began manifesting itself. Eris had been perfectly clear, voice calm and even as he coached you through what to do. “Slow your breathing and close your eyes. Picture where you want to go then reach for it.”
He should’ve been more thorough. Should’ve specified picturing a place within Autumn Court. Maybe if he had, you wouldn’t be here; wherever the fuck that was. Never once had you seen the sky so dark, the stars shining that much brighter against its canvas of murky oblivion.
It’s rather soothing, if not oddly familiar—like you’d been here before or had seen it once in a dream.
There’s no time to decipher the near-debilitating deja vu when you hear the heavy thud of a soldiers boots against the cobblestone. He’s a little drunk, steps sloppy and laughs loud as he jokes with a friend, arm digging into his side. You only catch a glimpse of his companions handsome face—and it’s memorable; all perfect angles, dark ink and smoldering shadows. Brilliant wings stand proudly behind him, shoulders stiff, hair mussed and full lips pressed into a thin line. A wisp of darkness curls around his ear and every muscle locks in place when eyes meet. “You!”
That’s your cue, his voice snapping you back to the present and your feet are taking off before you’ve even fully comprehended the siphons he wears. The color leathers he dons. The inky tattoos branded against the cut of his jaw. Descriptors you’d heard your brother prattle on about it time and time again, hateful worlds about a temperamental shadowsinger for the Night Court.
Fuck.
Of all the godsdamned places to winnow for the first time.
Thank shit you’re somewhat properly dressed, riding pants tucked neatly inside knee-length boots. Hair braided back and out of the way, a savior when dashing through the streets, weaving and bobbing through street vendors and small businesses. Its instinct to keep to the shadows, blending into nothingness until the sound of following footsteps fades.
Stopping to catch your breath would be your downfall, heart hammering and chest heaving too rapidly to notice the hankering figure looming behind you until sentient shadows sneak out like a limb and wraps around the tail of your braid in an iron grip. “Motherfucker!”
Azriel wishes he didn’t notice your beauty but he swears he recognizes it.
Hates the way his eyes scan over such pretty features, memorizing the plush of your mouth and the burning fire that erupts behind your iris. Curiosity grows when he realizes he’s seen them before, when the day is done and his duties are left at the door. When his head hits the pillow and his eyes close—foggy glimpses of your face is the one he sees.
A misty apparition turned tangible and now that he’s got you in the flesh, he refuses to let go. “Got quite the mouth on you.” He’s wearing gloves you notice, one hand reaching out to grip at your jaw, forcing you to stare at him head on. You pretend not to be affected by his strict surveillance and the way it takes in every inch of your face. Dragging down the slope of your neck long enough to acknowledge the attire that certainly isn’t sold at any stores near here. “Someone should teach you how to use it.”
“So, someone else will. Now let me go.” That’s the wrong answer but surely, he can feel it too—this tension that’s built on blind yearning and nursed by one hell of a chase; the kind that gets Azriel’s blood pumping and pants tightening from the satisfaction of catching such formidable prey.
Of having such a pretty reward for his efforts.
One that feels so familiar—so right.
“Not until you tell me how you got in.” A destructive fire eats away at your restraint when the rough cadence of his voice reaches your ears. It’s smooth like aged whiskey, the aftertaste a pleasant burn that warms your blood and melts your marrow to mush.
Maybe that’s why you answer with such little resistance, wonder still lingering around the edges of your syllables. “I winnowed.”
“Right through the wards?”
“There were wards?” Az doesn’t even bother trying to mask the breathless laugh that emits, disbelief leaking from every pore and you’re absolutely positive that alarm bells have been sounded—proper authorities alerted of a breach in their city. Your stomach turns, nerves frayed with worry when you realize just how deeply you’d fucked up. “Look, I meant no harm. I don’t even know where I am so if you’d just let me go, I can return to where I’m supposed to be.”
“Oh honey,” Breath catches at the silky tone he adopts, one arm braced near your head. It’s difficult not to notice the strong chords of his muscles jumping in your peripheral. “You’re exactly where I want you to be. Fat chance I’ll let you go now.”
"Hey babes! Can I get a frozen Pina colada with a salt rim please!..." (slides extra 20$ across counter top) "... Maybe a little extra salty...😉"
🫡now your speaking my language🫡🍹🧂🧂🧂
[ “are you crazy? we’re in public” “then you’d better keep quiet” + cassian + smut ]
-> BLURB BAR <-
Cassian was the kind of male your mother warned you about.
With his charming smiles and cheeky dimples. All that thick muscle bulging against worn leather. When you close your eyes, you can still smell him; sandalwood laced with the bitter tang of iron.
A pretty storm.
The perfect disaster.
Cassian was controlled chaos, the kind that sweeps through and fucks your life up while you’re too blinded by their beauty to notice. And just when the fog clears over your eyes, they’ve already moved onto the next best thing and your left cleaning up the carnage.
You’d been warned, yet you ignore it anyway—hypnotized by those welcoming hazel eyes and all too pliant under hands strong enough to break fragile bone.
He uses it to his advantage, manhandling you about; placing you exactly as he wants you. Legs splayed over his lap. Tits warm and supple in his palms when he subtly gropes at you, a dripping cunt pooling arousal in his lap. “Cassian,” A gasp pulls free when the pad of his fingers drag through your folds, voice shaky when you glance about the room. “Are you crazy? We’re in public—someone will hear.”
“Then, you’d better keep quiet peach because I’m not stopping.” Muscles tense in response, back bowing to conceal the thick arm tucked beneath your dress. His wrist flicks casually, lazily; two fingers keeping you spread while another applies a dizzying amount of pressure to your bud. One knee jerks at the stimulation, knocking ever so slightly under the table before you remember where you are—the discretion required and as if on queue, Cassian mutters in your ear. “No one’s going to see either.”
Debatable.
But, he certainly makes it more difficult with his hulking figure swallowing you whole, every inch hidden by muscular shoulders and a broad wingspan.
You're lucky that gathered guests are too busy fawning over your High Lord and his Lady to notice that the commander of his armies was working two fingers into your leaky cunt. A blush burns along your cheekbones, spine stiff and breathing spotty when trying to pretend that the steady thrust of his digits inside you wasn't shooting lightening along your nerves.
A cold-sweat breaks out along your hairline, hips subconsciously rutting into the pleasure brought between your thighs. "This is insane," You huff out, the smell of fae wine assaulting your senses with its sweet notes--almost as intoxicating as the male responsible for your undoing. "Can't believe you're making me do this."
"Not making you do anything, peach." The pace of his fingers speeds up, a humiliating squelch sounding below fresh linens as your body shows just how weak your flesh is. It's infuriating how quickly Cassian gets you there; too aware of what makes you tick and using it to his advantage. "Not yet, at least."
Lips swell under the stress of your teeth biting into them but it's the only way to keep the whorish moans trapped on your tongue as you teeter the line of mind-numbing ecsasty.
It’s so close you can taste it. Eyes clenching shut. Mouth parted ever so slightly as fingers curl into the fabric bunched at your thighs. But right before the peak of pleasure can wash over you, the sound of a chair being pulled back draws your attention.
“Well brother,” A voice croons. “What do we have here?”
