#cassian acotar

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

Also it's so exciting to find a blog writing for acotar most of the blogs I follow are now inactive or deactivated and the ones that are still active only like two actually take requests for acotar

I will write anytime it is requested🥰, my upload times may vary.🖤

I have a little girl and have to be in mummy mode sometimes 🥰🖤

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

Hello I'm the anonymous person who requested the autistic platonic dom sub relationship fanfic it was so cute

I would like to request another platonic dom sub dynamic fanfic rhysand x cassian x azriel x reader

Where adhdand autistic reader is in menace mode and keeps tickling her three doms cause she wants attention so they all punish reader by wrapping her up in blankets like a burrito and smothering her in affection until she's giggling hysterically at them all acting like silly doms

Omg hi! I'm glad you enjoyed it!

Here is your next request🥰

I hope you enjoy! I loved writing this!🥰🖤

The Burrito Protocol

plot

modern AU,

I have ADHD/autism, and I am in full menace mode and keeps tickling my three platonic doms (Azriel, Rhysand, and Cassian) for attention. As “punishment,” they wrap me tightly in blankets like a human burrito and smother me in relentless soft affection and silly antics until I'm giggling hysterically.

Content warnings

Tickling, light sensory overwhelm, blanket restraint (consensual & non-sexual), intense affection/smothering, mentions of ADHD and autism-related sensory needs. Fully platonic, no sexual content.

Word count

1.5k words

I’m curled up on the oversized sectional in the living room of the apartment the four of us share, legs folded under me, phone abandoned somewhere in the cushions. The late-afternoon light is soft and gold through the half-drawn blinds. Cassian is on the floor stretching after his run, Rhys is at the dining table with his laptop open and a half-finished cup of coffee, and Azriel is in the armchair nearest the window, book in hand, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.

My brain is buzzing. The usual low-level static of ADHD has cranked itself up into full menace mode, and the autistic part of me is simultaneously overstimulated by the quiet and desperate for contact. I need attention. I need movement. I need them to notice me right now. The silence feels too thick, the air too still, and every quiet page-turn or keyboard click is starting to itch under my skin.

I slide off the couch and pad over to Cassian first. He’s mid-hamstring stretch, forehead nearly touching his knee. I drop to my knees behind him, wiggle my fingers, and dig them straight into the sensitive spot just above his hip bones.

He yelps—loud, undignified, perfect. “Y/N—fuck!”

I cackle and scramble away before he can grab me, already zeroing in on Rhys. He’s still typing, brow furrowed in concentration. I sneak up behind his chair, reach around, and attack the soft underside of his ribs with both hands.

Rhys nearly knocks his coffee over. “Y/N,” he says, voice low and warning, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Behave.”

“No,” I announce, already bouncing toward Azriel. The word comes out bright and defiant, the kind of answer that only comes when my brain has decided rules are optional and chaos is mandatory.

Azriel doesn’t even look up from his book. He knows. He always knows. I still launch myself at him, fingers finding the ticklish spots along his sides and under his arms. He startles—rare for him—and the book thumps to the floor.

“Y/N,” he says, soft and dangerous.

I’m already laughing, high and bright, the kind of laugh that means my brain has fully switched into chaos mode. I dart back toward the couch, but Cassian is up now, long arms reaching. I dodge, vault over the arm of the sofa, and make another run at Rhys, who has stood up and is watching me with that calm, assessing look that usually means trouble for me in the best way.

I manage two more solid tickle attacks—one on Cassian’s neck that makes him swear creatively, one on Azriel’s stomach when he tries to intercept me—before the three of them close ranks. My heart is racing in the best possible way. Every successful dodge and every startled reaction from them feeds the restless energy under my skin.

“Enough,” Rhys says, but he’s fighting a smile.

Cassian cracks his knuckles. “Somebody’s in menace mode.”

Azriel just tilts his head, dark eyes warm. “You want attention that badly, little one?”

“Yes,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Obviously. You’re all being boring and quiet and I can’t stand it. My brain is vibrating. I need you to look at me. Touch me. Something.”

They exchange a look. The kind of silent conversation they’ve perfected over years of knowing each other and, more recently, knowing me. Then Cassian grins, wide and wicked.

“Blanket burrito time.”

I freeze. “Wait—”

Too late. Rhys is already moving toward the linen closet. Azriel steps in close, gentle hands on my shoulders, steering me toward the middle of the living-room rug. Cassian disappears down the hall and returns with an armful of the softest, thickest blankets we own—the big gray one, the blue waffle-knit, the fuzzy cream throw I stole from Azriel’s bed last week.

“No,” I say, laughing already, trying to twist away. “You can’t just—Cassian!”

He drops the pile at my feet. “Oh, we can. And we will.”

Rhys returns with two more blankets and a determined expression. “You’ve been terrorizing us for the last twenty minutes. Consequences.”

Azriel’s hands are steady on my upper arms. “Lie down, Y/N.”

I do, because the part of me that thrives on structure and clear direction lights up at the command, even while the menace part is still cackling. I stretch out on the rug, arms at my sides, and the three of them begin the process with the seriousness of people performing a sacred ritual.

Cassian starts at my feet, wrapping the first blanket tightly around my legs. He mutters under his breath the whole time, something about “containing the chaos gremlin” and “for her own good.” Rhys takes the second, overlapping it carefully so there’s no gap, his movements precise and almost meditative. Azriel handles the top half, tucking the edges under my shoulders and then rolling me—gently, firmly—until I’m a proper human burrito, only my head and the very tips of my toes free.

I wiggle experimentally. Nothing. I’m cocooned. The pressure is perfect—deep, even, the kind of sensory input my nervous system has been craving without me realizing it. The world feels quieter already, the edges of my thoughts softening under the weight.

“There,” Cassian says, sitting back on his heels and admiring their work. “One menace, successfully contained.”

Rhys settles on one side of me, Azriel on the other. Cassian claims the space near my head, leaning over so I can see his upside-down grin.

“Punishment phase two,” Rhys murmurs, and then they start.

Cassian kisses the top of my head, then both temples, then the tip of my nose. He does it with exaggerated care, like he’s performing a ceremony. Azriel’s long fingers stroke through my hair, slow and rhythmic, scratching lightly at my scalp in a way that makes my eyes want to flutter shut. Rhys presses his forehead to mine for a second, then begins a careful campaign of soft kisses along my cheekbones and the bridge of my nose.

I giggle. It starts small, a little bubble of sound that escapes before I can stop it.

They escalate immediately, as if the first giggle was a starting gun.

Cassian launches into a ridiculous running commentary in a terrible British accent about “the captured menace” and how “the council of doms has decreed maximum affection protocol.” He puts on a stuffy voice and starts listing imaginary rules: “Section four, paragraph two—excessive tickling shall be met with overwhelming softness. Section five—giggling is mandatory.” Azriel, usually so quiet, begins humming under his breath—some soft, silly tune I don’t recognize—while continuing to pet my hair. Every so often he leans down and presses a tiny kiss to my forehead, counting them out loud in that low, calm voice of his. “One. Two. Three. You’re doing so well, staying still for us.”

Rhys keeps up a steady stream of quiet praise mixed with absurdities. “Our little tickle monster,” he says against my temple. “All wrapped up and nowhere to run. So brave. So chaotic. So thoroughly doomed to be loved within an inch of her life. Look at you, trapped in your blanket fortress while we ruin you with affection.”

I laugh harder. The sound bubbles up from my chest and spills out, helpless. My whole body tries to curl in on itself inside the blankets, but there’s nowhere to go. The pressure holds me steady while the affection keeps coming. My cheeks are already starting to ache.

Cassian switches to blowing raspberries against the top of my head, loud and ridiculous, which only makes me shriek with laughter. Azriel leans down and presses a series of tiny, deliberate kisses to my forehead, still counting. Rhys starts making increasingly ridiculous faces every time I manage to open my eyes—crossed eyes, tongue out, the works—until I’m laughing so hard I can barely breathe.

I’m gone. Full hysterical giggles now, the kind that make my stomach hurt in the best way, the kind that leave me gasping for air between bursts of laughter. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. My face is hot. Every time I try to form words—“I hate you all” or “this isn’t fair” or “more”—they dissolve into more laughter. The autistic part of me is floating in the perfect combination of deep pressure and predictable, repeated touch. The ADHD part is finally quiet, attention completely captured by the three of them being ridiculous on purpose.

“Look at her,” Cassian says, delighted. “She’s breaking.”

“Good,” Azriel answers softly. “She needed it.”

Rhys just keeps kissing my cheeks, my nose, the corner of my mouth, murmuring, “That’s it. Let it out. We’ve got you. No more menace mode until further notice. Just take it. All the soft. All the silly. All the love.”

They don’t stop. They take turns. Cassian tells the most outrageous stories about their college days, complete with exaggerated voices and dramatic hand gestures I can only half-see from my burrito prison. Azriel switches to tracing gentle patterns on my forehead and temples with his fingertips, the pressure perfect, grounding. Rhys settles more firmly against my side, one arm draped over the burrito of me, and begins listing every single thing he loves about the way my brain works—how it jumps, how it notices, how it loves so fiercely once it decides something is safe.

I can’t stop laughing. It’s not the sharp, manic laugh from earlier. This is deeper, warmer, the kind that shakes my whole body inside the blankets and leaves me soft and floaty afterward. My sensory system is singing. The deep pressure of the wrap, the constant gentle touch, the sound of their voices layered over each other—it’s everything my overstimulated, attention-starved brain needed.

Eventually the giggles taper into soft, hiccupping breaths. I’m still smiling so hard my cheeks ache. Cassian is lying on his stomach now, chin propped on his hands, watching me with open fondness. Azriel has shifted so my head is almost in his lap, still carding his fingers through my hair. Rhys hasn’t moved from his place against my side.

“Feeling better?” Rhys asks quietly.

I nod as much as the blankets allow. “Yeah. That was… a lot. In a good way. My brain feels like it finally sat down.”

Cassian reaches out and boops my nose. “You were a menace. We had to respond accordingly.”

“By turning into the world’s softest torturers,” I mumble, still smiling.

Azriel’s mouth quirks. “Effective, though.”

They’re quiet for a while after that, just staying close. The late light has shifted into proper evening gold. Somewhere in the building a door closes; traffic hums faintly from the street below. Inside our living room it’s warm and still and safe.

I wiggle a little. “Can I come out now?”

Three pairs of eyes consider me.

“Hmm,” Cassian says. “What do you think, boys? Has the menace learned her lesson?”

Rhys pretends to think hard. “She does seem significantly less tickle-inclined.”

Azriel’s fingers pause in my hair. “We could keep her like this a little longer. Just to be sure.”

I make a protesting noise that dissolves into another soft laugh. “You’re all ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Cassian says, already starting to unwind the outer layer of blankets.

They unwrap me carefully, the same deliberate way they put me in. As soon as my arms are free I reach for them, pulling Cassian down into a messy hug, then Rhys, then Azriel, until we’re a tangled heap on the rug in a nest of discarded blankets.

I end up with my head on Rhys’s chest, one of Cassian’s heavy arms across my waist, Azriel’s fingers still loosely tangled in my hair. My body feels loose and settled in a way it hasn’t all day. The static in my brain has quieted to a manageable hum.

“Thank you,” I say into Rhys’s shirt. “For the burrito. And the affection assault. And for putting up with me when I’m like that.”

Cassian’s voice is warm against the top of my head. “Always. That’s the deal.”

Azriel’s quiet agreement rumbles somewhere near my ear. Rhys just presses a kiss to my hair and holds on a little tighter.

We stay like that as the light fades completely, the four of us tangled together on the living-room floor, blankets everywhere, the earlier chaos replaced by something soft and steady and exactly right. My brain is quiet. My body is calm. And the three of them—my ridiculous, perfect, silly doms—are right here, still surrounding me with the kind of affection that feels like the safest place in the world.

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

Ive got to know. Absolutely desperate to know. Do you think you'll do more of Az/Cass/reader/Rhys story?? 👀👀❤️

YES!!! I have a few in the worls 😉🥰🖤

EDIT! Enjoy lovely 😉🥰🖤

Ruined in the House of Wind

plot

I’m with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel in the House of Wind. The three of them, completely obsessed with me, strip me, restrain me with shadows, and use me thoroughly—mouth, cunt, and ass—while discovering and repeatedly forcing my previously unknown ability to squirt. They praise, claim, and ruin me for hours.

Content warnings

Explicit consensual group sex (MMMF), double penetration, oral, anal, shadow bondage/restraint, squirting, multiple orgasms, heavy dirty talk, mild degradation/praise, cum play, overstimulation, obsession/possessiveness.

1.8k words

The House of Wind is quiet except for the low crackle of the fire and the heavy, hungry breathing of the three males who own me. Cassian’s wings are half-spread, casting broad shadows across the rug. Azriel stands a little apart, scarred hands loose at his sides, but his hazel eyes are locked on me like he’s starving. Rhysand is right in front of me, violet stare molten, a lazy smirk curling his mouth, I’m already trembling by the time Rhysand’s shadows coil around my wrists and haul them above my head.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet. “Already soaked and we haven’t even touched you yet.”

Cassian’s laugh is rough. “She’s been dripping since dinner. I could smell her across the table.”

Azriel doesn’t speak. He just steps closer and lets a single shadow slide up the inside of my thigh, cool and deliberate. It brushes the lace between my legs and I jolt, a helpless sound slipping out of me. The shadow presses harder, teasing the seam of my cunt through the fabric until I’m rocking into it.

Rhysand’s fingers find the neckline of my dress. He doesn’t bother with the fastenings. The material rips down the front with one sharp tug, baring my breasts to the warm air. Cassian is on me instantly, mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard enough to make my back arch. Azriel’s shadows finish the job, peeling the ruined dress off my body and binding my ankles wide apart so I’m forced open for them.

I’m naked now. Completely. Bound by living darkness that tightens whenever I squirm. Rhysand cups my face, thumb stroking my lower lip.

“We’re going to use every hole tonight,” he says softly. “And you’re going to take it like the perfect little mate you are.”

Cassian’s teeth scrape my other nipple. “Gonna wreck that pretty cunt until she forgets how to walk.”

Azriel’s voice is quieter, rougher. “And then we’re going to fill her ass until she can’t take any more.”

A thick shadow slides between my folds, parting me. I’m already slick, shamefully wet, and the cool tendril circles my clit before dipping inside. Just the tip. Teasing. I try to push down onto it and the bindings hold me still. Rhysand’s eyes darken with pure filth.

“Greedy,” he praises. “Show us how much you need it.”

Cassian drops to his knees between my spread thighs. His big hands grip my hips and he buries his face in my cunt without warning, tongue broad and filthy, licking from entrance to clit in long, greedy strokes. I cry out. The shadows around my wrists tighten in response, holding me open while Cassian eats me like he’s been denied for weeks. Azriel steps in behind me, chest to my back, and two more shadows curl around my breasts, pinching and rolling my nipples while Cassian’s tongue fucks into me.

Rhysand watches, hand already stroking the thick bulge in his leathers. “That’s it. Get her cunt nice and messy for us.”

Cassian growls against me and sucks my clit hard. Pleasure spikes so sharp I almost come, but he pulls back at the last second, leaving me shaking and empty. A thin string of my wetness clings to his lower lip. He licks it off and grins up at me.

“Fuck, she’s ready.”

Azriel’s fingers replace Cassian’s mouth. Two scarred digits push into me slowly, curling, finding that soft spot that makes my thighs jerk. He works me open with ruthless patience while Rhysand steps closer and frees his cock. It’s heavy, flushed, already leaking. He rubs the head across my lips.

“Open.”

I do. He slides over my tongue in one smooth thrust, filling my mouth until I gag softly around him. The taste of him floods me—salt and heat and power. Cassian stands, shoves his own leathers down, and fists his cock while he watches Rhysand fuck my face. Azriel’s fingers never stop. Three now. Stretching. Slicking. Every time he brushes that spot inside me, my cunt clenches and a fresh rush of wetness coats his hand.

Rhysand pulls out of my mouth with a wet pop. “On the bed. Now.”

The shadows move me. I’m lifted, carried, and dropped onto the massive bed in the center of the room. My arms stay bound above my head. My legs are forced wider. Rhysand climbs up first, kneeling between my thighs, cock in hand. He drags the head through my folds, coating himself, then pushes in with one long, deep thrust that punches the air from my lungs.

I moan around the sudden fullness. He’s thick, stretching me perfectly, and he doesn’t give me time to adjust. He starts fucking me in hard, measured strokes, each one driving deep enough that I feel him in my stomach. Cassian crawls up beside my head, guiding his cock to my mouth. I open eagerly and he slides in, hips rolling, using my throat while Rhysand uses my cunt.

Azriel watches for a long moment, eyes burning, then moves to the side of the bed. Shadows pin my hips down so I can’t rock up to meet Rhysand’s thrusts. He leans over me, brushes a kiss to the corner of my mouth around Cassian’s cock, and murmurs, “You’re doing so well for us tonight, good girl.”

I cant help but moan at the praise, then Rhysand changes the angle. He drags almost all the way out, then slams back in, grinding against that swollen place inside me with every thrust. Pressure builds fast—hot, overwhelming, different from any orgasm I’ve had with them before. My thighs start to shake. Cassian pulls out of my mouth so I can breathe and I sob, “Something—something’s—”

“Let it happen,” Rhysand orders, voice ragged. He fucks me harder, chasing it. “Give it to us.”

Azriel’s fingers find my clit and rub tight, fast circles. The dual stimulation snaps something loose. Pleasure crashes through me so violently I scream. My cunt clamps down and then gushes—hot, wet, uncontrollable. Fluid floods out around Rhysand’s cock, soaking his thighs, the sheets, everything. I keep coming, body jerking against the shadows, and they don’t stop.

“Fuck—look at that,” Cassian groans. “She’s fucking squirting.”

Rhysand doesn’t pull out. He keeps thrusting through it, dragging more out of me with every snap of his hips. “Again. Do it again.”

Azriel’s shadows slide under my ass, lifting me higher so Rhysand can pound deeper. Another thick tendril presses against my back entrance, slick and insistent. It works its way inside while I’m still trembling from the first orgasm, stretching me open in slow, relentless increments. The dual invasion—Rhysand’s cock in my cunt, shadows in my ass—makes the pressure return almost immediately.

Cassian fists a hand in my hair and feeds his cock back into my mouth. “Take it. All of it.”

I’m full. Completely used. Rhysand’s thrusts turn brutal. Azriel’s shadows fuck my ass in counterpoint. Cassian uses my throat. The next orgasm hits harder than the first. I squirt again, harder, longer, soaking Rhysand’s cock and balls while I gag around Cassian. They praise me through it—filthy, adoring words that sink into my skin.

“Perfect little slut.”

“Our perfect mate.”

“Look how well you take us.”

“Gonna keep you like this for hours.”

Rhysand pulls out suddenly, cock shiny with my release, and Cassian takes his place between my legs without missing a beat. He drives into my still-clenching cunt with a snarl, wings flaring wide. Azriel’s shadows keep working my ass, thicker now, stretching me until the burn blooms into pure heat. Rhysand moves up the bed and paints my lips with the head of his cock, making me taste myself.

Cassian fucks me like he wants to brand me from the inside. Every thrust forces more fluid out of me; I’m still squirting in little pulses around him, body oversensitive and greedy. Azriel finally frees his own cock and strokes it slowly while he watches, shadows doing the work of filling me. When Cassian pulls out to let me breathe, Azriel takes his turn.

He sinks into my cunt with a low, broken sound, scarred hands gripping my thighs hard enough to bruise. The shadows in my ass pulse and thicken, matching his rhythm. Rhysand and Cassian stroke themselves on either side of me, watching Azriel lose control. He lasts longer than either of them expected, fucking me through another forced orgasm that leaves me sobbing and gushing all over him.

Then they rearrange me.

Shadows flip me onto my hands and knees—or rather, force my chest to the mattress and my ass high. My arms stay bound. Rhysand kneels behind me and presses the head of his cock to my stretched, glistening hole. He pushes in slow, inch by inch, until his hips are flush against my ass and I’m stuffed full. Cassian slides underneath me, guiding his cock into my cunt at the same time. The dual stretch makes my vision white out. Azriel moves to my head, cock smearing across my lips until I open and take him deep.

They fuck me in perfect, filthy synchronicity.

Rhysand in my ass.

Cassian in my cunt.

Azriel in my mouth.

Every thrust shoves me forward onto Azriel’s cock. Every retreat lets me breathe just enough before they fill me again. The pressure inside me builds and builds until I’m coming almost continuously, squirting around Cassian’s cock in rhythmic pulses that leave the sheets beneath us a soaked mess. They don’t stop. They praise me through every wave—calling me theirs, telling me how pretty I look ruined, how they’re going to keep me like this until I can’t remember my own name.

Hours blur. They switch positions again and again. I’m on my back with my legs forced wide while Azriel and Cassian take turns in my cunt and Rhysand fucks my throat. I’m straddling Cassian’s cock while Rhysand works his way into my ass from behind and Azriel feeds me his release. I’m held upright by shadows, completely suspended, while all three of them use me—one after another, then together, then one after another again.

Every time I think I can’t take more, they force another orgasm out of me. My ability to squirt becomes a weapon they wield without mercy. Rhysand’s fingers or tongue or cock find that spot inside me and work it until I’m flooding the bed. Cassian holds me open and watches with dark, delighted eyes. Azriel’s shadows never stop stimulating my clit, my nipples, the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.

They cum on me, in me, over me. Rhysand fills my ass and then my cunt. Cassian paints my breasts and then forces his cock back into my mouth so I can taste both of them. Azriel cums down my throat with a quiet, broken groan and then softens only long enough to catch his breath before he’s hard again and sliding back into my oversensitive body.

By the time they finally slow, I’m a wreck. Covered in sweat, cum and my own release. Shadows still hold me open because my limbs no longer work. Rhysand lies beside me, fingers gently stroking through the mess between my legs, occasionally pressing inside just to feel how swollen and used I am. Cassian’s wing is draped over both of us, heavy and warm. Azriel cleans me with soft shadows and quieter touches, pressing kisses to my inner thighs, my hips, the marks they left on my skin.

“Ours,” Rhysand murmurs against my temple. “Completely.”

Cassian’s hand spans my stomach. “Never letting you go.”

Azriel’s voice is the softest. “Rest. We’re not done with you yet.”

I drift in the afterglow, body still twitching with aftershocks, cunt still fluttering around nothing, ass still aching sweetly. They stay close—touching, claiming, praising—while the House of Wind holds us in its quiet dark. And I know, with absolute certainty, that when I wake they’ll start all over again.

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

BRING HER HOME MASTERLIST

♡ Prologue / Chapter One

♡ Chapter Two

♡ Chapter Three

♡ Chapter Four

♡ Chapter Five

♡ Chapter Six

♡ Chapter Seven

♡ Chapter Eight

♡ Chapter Nine

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

Requested Story🥰

The Edges They Hold

Plot

Being autistic comes with many challenges, and the strictly platonic Dom/sub dynamic I share with Cassian and Azriel gives my nervous system the clear structure it needs. Rules, routines, safewords, kneeling, and steady check-ins quiet the constant noise of sensory overwhelm, decision fatigue, and masking.

Content Warning

Platonic Dominant/submissive dynamics (power exchange, kneeling, protocols, titles, safewords); autism and related experiences (sensory sensitivity, masking, decision fatigue, emotional/sensory overload, shutdown, interoception difficulties); mild physical training discomfort; emotional vulnerability, grief, and discussions of dependency and self-worth. No sexual content.

4.2k words.

I kneel on the cool stone of the training room floor the way they taught me. Spine straight, hands resting palms-up on my thighs, eyes lowered. The position is familiar now. It settles something restless inside my chest.

Before any of this, the world was too loud.

I am autistic. Bright lights, overlapping voices, unexpected changes, and the constant pressure to mask left me exhausted and overstimulated more days than not. Decision fatigue crushed me. Transitions felt like cliffs. I spent years trying to force myself into neurotypical rhythms and failing, then blaming myself for the failure. When I finally told Cassian and Azriel the truth—really told them, not the carefully edited version I usually offered—they did not flinch. They listened. Then they offered structure.

Not pity. Not a cure. A container.

Clear rules. Predictable routines. Explicit expectations. Permission to stop masking inside the dynamic. A way to hand over the constant low-level decision-making that drained me so I could save my energy for the things that mattered. Kneeling became a reset button for my nervous system. Titles and protocols gave my brain clean edges to lean against. The knowledge that two steady people were holding the frame let me drop the exhausting performance of “fine.” It is still work. It is still a choice every day. But it is the first thing that has ever made the noise inside my head quiet enough to hear myself think.

That is why I am here.

Cassian’s boots stop in front of me. I don’t look up. I wait.

“Good,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re already centered. That makes this easier.”

Azriel’s presence is quieter, but I feel him to my left like a shadow that chooses to be seen. He doesn’t speak yet. He rarely does when Cassian is setting the tone.

“Look at me,” Cassian orders.

I lift my eyes. His hazel gaze is steady, assessing, but not unkind. He crouches so we’re closer to eye level.

“Today is a long day,” he says. “We’re going to push. You’re going to stay in your headspace unless one of us pulls you out. You use your colors if you need to. Yellow to slow. Red to stop. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Az?”

Azriel’s voice is quieter, but it carries. “Same rules as always. You do not push past your limits to impress us. You do not hide discomfort. You speak when spoken to, or when you need to. Clear?”

“Yes, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s mouth almost curves. Almost. He has never asked me to call him that, but the first time I did it slipped out and he didn’t correct me. Cassian uses “Sir.” Azriel accepts the title that already belongs to him.

Cassian rises. “Stand.”

I stand. My knees ache faintly from the position, but the ache is grounding. He circles me once, checking posture the way he checks a warrior’s stance before a fight.

“Shoulders back. Chin level. You’re not collapsing today.” His hand brushes my upper back, a brief, firm correction. “Better. Now—breathe with me.”

We do the breathing exercise first. In for four, hold for four, out for six. Azriel joins without being asked, matching the count. The room smells of leather, steel, and the faint trace of the mountain wind that always seems to cling to both of them. The rhythm gives my nervous system something predictable to lock onto. The chaos of the morning—the too-bright light when I opened the shutters, the unexpected messenger in the corridor—starts to recede.

When the breathing ends, Cassian nods toward the sparring ring.

“Weapons work first. Then endurance. Then the quiet work.”

The quiet work is Azriel’s domain—stillness, focus, the kind of control that has nothing to do with blades.

I move to the rack and select the practice swords they prefer I use. Cassian takes his own. Azriel remains at the edge of the ring, watching. He always watches first.

Cassian does not go easy. He never does once the session begins. His strikes come hard and fast, testing my guard, my footwork, the way I recover when he knocks me off balance. Every time I falter he gives a short, sharp correction.

“Guard higher.”

“Weight on the balls of your feet.”

“Again.”

I obey. The dynamic makes obedience simple. There is no room for the usual noise in my head—the second-guessing, the fear of disappointing, the spiral of *what if I’m not enough*. There is only the next instruction and the choice to follow it. For someone whose brain spends so much energy predicting every possible social and sensory outcome, the relief of a single clear path is enormous.

When I miss a block and the wooden blade catches my ribs, Cassian stops immediately.

“Color.”

I check in with myself the way they taught me. The impact stung, but it is within what we have agreed is acceptable. “Green, Sir.”

He studies my face for a long second, then nods. “Continue.”

We work until my arms shake and sweat runs down my spine. Cassian finally steps back.

“Enough blades. Water. Then you run the perimeter with Azriel.”

I drink. Azriel is already at the door. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. He knows I will.

The mountain air is sharp. We run in silence. Azriel sets a pace that is demanding but not cruel. When my breathing grows ragged he glances over once.

“Still green?”

“Yes, Shadowsinger.”

He doesn’t slow, but he doesn’t push the pace higher either. That is how he cares—by paying attention without making a performance of it. The steady rhythm of footfalls and breath becomes another form of regulation. My body knows what to do. My mind can rest inside the motion.

We finish the circuit back at the training room. Cassian is waiting with a fresh set of wraps and a look that says the next part will be harder.

“Kneel.”

I kneel.

“Hands behind your back.”

I lace my fingers. The position opens my chest, makes breathing deeper, more deliberate. Cassian crouches again.

“We’re going to work on stillness. You will hold this while Azriel asks you questions. You will answer honestly. If you move without permission, we start the count over. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Azriel steps closer. His shadows curl faintly around his boots, restless but controlled.

“Why are you here today?” he asks.

The question is not about the training room. It never is.

I keep my eyes lowered the way they prefer during this work. “Because I asked for structure. Because I do better when someone else holds the edges. Because without it my brain tries to track everything at once and I shut down.”

“And if we were not here?”

“I would still try. But it would be harder. Louder inside. More masking. More recovery time I don’t have.”

Cassian’s hand rests briefly on the crown of my head—not petting, not soothing exactly. Anchoring. “Good. Keep going, Az.”

Azriel’s questions continue. Some are practical: how my body feels, whether the earlier impact still bothers me, what I need for the afternoon. Some go deeper: what I’m afraid of failing at, what I am protecting by staying small, what it would cost me to ask for more help than I already have.

I answer. When my shoulders start to creep upward with tension, Cassian’s voice cuts in, quiet but absolute.

“Drop them.”

I drop them.

Time stretches. My knees protest. My arms begin to ache from the locked position. I breathe through it the way they taught me—acknowledging the discomfort without letting it become the whole story. For my nervous system, this is practice in staying present instead of dissociating or spiraling. The external structure becomes internal regulation.

When Azriel finally says, “Enough,” Cassian is already moving to help me unfold. He doesn’t pull me up. He waits until I have released my hands, then offers his own.

“Stand slowly.”

I stand. The blood returns to my legs in a rush of pins and needles. Cassian steadies me with a hand at my elbow. Azriel brings a blanket—not because I’m cold, but because the transition out of deep headspace can leave me shaky, and the weight helps. Deep pressure has always been regulating for me. They learned that early and never forgot.

They guide me to the low bench against the wall. Cassian sits on one side, Azriel on the other. Neither of them crowds me. They simply bookend the space so I don’t have to hold myself up alone yet.

“Talk,” Cassian says. Not an order this time. An invitation with the weight of expectation behind it.

I tell them what the session felt like. Where I struggled. Where the quiet came easiest. They listen the way they always do—Cassian with open attention, Azriel with that focused stillness that makes every word feel received. No one rushes me to summarize or make it neat. They let the processing take the time it takes.

When I finish, Azriel speaks.

“You held longer than last time. Your answers were cleaner. You’re learning to stay with the discomfort instead of performing through it.”

Coming from him, the words land like praise and instruction at once.

Cassian bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “Proud of you. But don’t let it go to your head. Tomorrow we do the endurance circuit again, and I’m not going to make it easier just because you looked steady while you suffered today.”

I huff a quiet laugh. The sound surprises me. It usually does, after the deep work.

Azriel’s shadows brush the edge of the blanket once, almost like a touch, then withdraw.

“Rest for twenty minutes,” he says. “Then we eat. After that, you have free time until evening check-in. Use it. Don’t fill it with tasks just because quiet feels dangerous.”

“Yes, Shadowsinger.”

Cassian stands and ruffles my hair once—quick, affectionate, entirely non-romantic. “Good girl. Now breathe. We’ve got you.”

I close my eyes and do exactly that.

The rest of the day unfolds inside the structure they have built with me.

At midday we eat together in the small room off the training hall. Cassian talks more than Azriel—stories about the war-band, complaints about the latest Illyrian politics, an outrageous exaggeration about a sparring match he won last week. Azriel interjects only when the exaggeration becomes too much, which makes Cassian grin wider. I am allowed to speak freely during meals unless they have set a quiet protocol. Today they have not. I tell them about the book I am reading. Cassian pretends to be scandalized that it contains no battles. Azriel asks one precise question about the author’s argument and then falls silent again, listening. The predictability of these meals—same room, same approximate time, same people—keeps my system from bracing for the unknown.

After the meal they release me.

Free time is part of the dynamic too. It is not an absence of structure; it is a structured absence. I am expected to notice what I need and meet it without waiting for them to direct every moment. Some days that means a nap. Some days it means walking the grounds until my thoughts settle. Today I sit in the weak afternoon sun with my back against the outer wall of the training complex and let the mountain air move through me. The pressure of the stone against my spine helps. The limited sensory input helps. I do not have to perform “relaxed.” I simply am.

When the light begins to change I return.

Evening check-in is quieter than the morning work. We gather in the same room. I kneel again, but the posture is softer now—less formal, more habitual. Cassian sits in the low chair. Azriel leans against the wall, arms folded, shadows calm.

“Report,” Cassian says.

I tell them how the free hours went. What I chose. What I avoided. Whether anything from the morning session is still echoing. They listen. Sometimes they ask follow-up questions. Sometimes they simply nod. The ritual of reporting externalizes the internal inventory my brain tries to run constantly. Once it is spoken and received, the loop can quiet.

When I am finished, Azriel speaks.

“You did well today. You stayed present. You used your words when you needed to. That is the work.”

Cassian leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Anything you need from us before we release you for the night?”

I consider the question the way they have taught me to—honestly, without rushing to say *nothing*.

“Could I… stay in protocol a little longer? Just until I sleep. The quiet helps.”

Cassian glances at Azriel. Something wordless passes between them. Then Cassian nods.

“All right. Kneeling optional. Spoken protocol stays in place until you are in your rooms and the door is closed. After that you are free. If you need either of us in the night, you use the signal. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He stands and offers a hand. I take it and rise. Azriel pushes off the wall and falls into step on my other side as we leave the training complex.

The walk back toward the living quarters is unhurried. The mountain night is cold and clean. Neither of them speaks unless I do. The silence is companionable, held in place by the structure we have all agreed to keep. For my nervous system, the absence of pressure to fill the quiet is a gift.

At my door Cassian stops. Azriel does too.

“Color?” Cassian asks, one last time.

I check in. The day has been long and demanding, but I am steady. “Green, Sir.”

“Then sleep. We’ll see you at dawn.”

Azriel’s voice is quieter. “You did well. Rest.”

I bow my head the way I do at the end of formal time—small, deliberate. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Cassian’s hand lands briefly on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. Then they are gone, footsteps fading down the corridor, and I am alone with the quiet they helped me build.

I close the door. The protocol lifts the moment the latch clicks, exactly as agreed. I move through the small evening routines—washing, changing, banking the fire—without the weight of being observed. The freedom feels earned rather than empty. The routines themselves are another form of regulation: same order, same motions, same sensory sequence every night.

When I finally lie down, the mountain wind moves against the stone outside. Somewhere beyond the walls two Illyrian warriors are keeping their own counsel, the same way they keep mine: carefully, consistently, without needing to make a spectacle of the care.

I close my eyes.

Tomorrow we will begin again.

The days that follow settle into a rhythm that is both demanding and strangely gentle.

Mornings belong to the body. Cassian runs the physical training with the same relentless attention he gives his warriors. He corrects form, pushes endurance, demands honesty about pain versus injury. When I push too hard he stops me with a single word. When I hold back he sees it and names it without cruelty. The dynamic keeps the work clean. There is no room for the old patterns of performing competence or hiding struggle. He asks; I answer; we adjust. For a brain that struggles with interoception and sometimes misses its own signals until they become overwhelming, the external accountability is protective.

Afternoons often belong to Azriel. Stillness. Focus. The quieter disciplines. He teaches me how to hold a posture until the mind stops arguing with it. How to track breath until thought becomes optional. How to sit with discomfort without turning it into a story about failure. His praise is rare and precise. His corrections are the same. I learn to trust both. The stillness work is especially useful on high-sensory days; it gives my system a deliberate low-input container instead of the chaotic under-stimulation that sometimes hits just as hard as overload.

Evenings are for integration. We talk. Sometimes the talk is practical—what worked, what needs changing, whether the protocols still serve. Sometimes it is deeper. Cassian has a gift for asking the question that unlocks the thing I have been circling. Azriel has a gift for sitting with the silence that follows until the real answer surfaces. Neither of them fills the quiet with reassurance I did not ask for. They let me find the words at the speed my processing allows.

There are harder days.

One afternoon the stillness work breaks something open I was not ready to look at. Grief, sharp and sudden, for a version of myself I left behind years ago—the one who thought if she just masked hard enough the world would finally make sense. I use the color. Yellow first. Then, when the wave does not pass, red.

They stop everything.

Cassian is on the floor with me in seconds, not crowding, just present. Azriel’s shadows form a loose perimeter, as if holding the space itself. No one tells me to breathe through it or be strong. They simply wait while I shake and cry and eventually go quiet again. The lack of pressure to regulate for their comfort is itself regulating.

When I can speak, Cassian’s voice is soft.

“We’ve got you. Nothing to prove. Take the time you need.”

Azriel brings water. He does not offer empty comfort. He offers presence, which is better.

We do not resume the formal work that day. Instead they keep me close in the informal way—Cassian telling stories that require no response, Azriel existing nearby like a reliable shadow. By nightfall the sharp edge has dulled. I sleep without dreams.

The next morning Cassian checks in before we begin.

“Still green enough to work?”

I consider it carefully. “Yes, Sir. But maybe… lighter today.”

He nods once. “Then we go lighter. You set the pace until you’re ready to hand it back.”

I do. And when I am ready, I hand it back. The trust goes both ways. The dynamic only works because I am allowed to renegotiate it in real time.

Weeks pass. The mountain seasons shift. My body grows stronger. My mind grows quieter. The protocols become less like external rules and more like a language we all speak fluently. On high-masking days I lean harder into the formal structure. On lower-demand days we soften it. The flexibility is built in; rigidity would defeat the purpose.

One evening, after a particularly deep session, Azriel speaks while I am still kneeling in the soft afterglow of the work.

“You have changed,” he says. Not praise exactly. Observation. “You take up space differently now. You ask for what you need without apologizing for the asking.”

Cassian, sprawled in the chair with the easy confidence of a man who has never doubted his right to occupy a room, grins. “She’s becoming a menace. Next she’ll be ordering *us* around.”

I smile at the floor. “Unlikely, Sir.”

“Good. I like my job.”

Azriel’s near-smile appears again. “So do I.”

The moment holds—warm, steady, entirely without complication. This is what the dynamic has given us: a way to care for one another that is clear, boundaried, and free of the usual confusions. They hold authority because I give it and because they are capable of carrying it responsibly. I surrender because it frees me. The exchange is clean.

Later, when they walk me back to my rooms, Cassian’s hand finds the back of my neck in a brief, grounding squeeze.

“Proud of you,” he says quietly. “Not for the endurance. For the honesty. That’s the harder work.”

Azriel adds, almost too soft to hear, “Rest well. We will be here in the morning.”

I believe him.

I always do.

There are missions that take them away for days at a time. Before each departure we tighten the protocols—clearer check-ins, written instructions for the days they are gone, a signal system if I need to reach them urgently. The structure travels with me even when they cannot. Predictability in their absence matters as much as predictability in their presence. When they return, the first thing we do is re-establish contact: kneeling, report, physical check-in if the separation was long. The ritual settles us all. My nervous system recognizes the sequence and begins to downshift before the conversation even starts.

There is a night, deep in winter, when the wind howls hard enough to rattle the shutters and I cannot sleep. The sensory assault of the storm plus the isolation tips me into overload. I use the signal. Cassian appears first, hair mussed, expression already shifting into the focused calm he wears when someone needs him. Azriel arrives minutes later, shadows restless from the weather. They do not ask questions immediately. They simply sit—Cassian on the floor with his back against my bedframe, Azriel in the chair by the window—until the storm inside me matches the one outside and then gradually quietens. No one demands eye contact. No one fills the silence with forced conversation. They offer co-regulation without requiring performance.

When I can speak, I tell them about the old fear that still surfaces sometimes: that if I stop performing competence, people will leave. That needing structure makes me weak. That one day they will decide the dynamic is too much trouble.

Cassian listens all the way to the end. Then he says, with absolute certainty, “We’re not going anywhere. You could need ten times this and we would still be here. The dynamic exists because it works—for you and for us. If it ever stops working, we adjust. We don’t abandon.”

Azriel’s voice is quieter, but no less firm. “You are not a burden. You are a person we choose to hold structure for. There is a difference.”

I cry again, but it is the good kind—the kind that releases instead of wounds. When it passes, Cassian ruffles my hair and tells me to sleep. Azriel banks the fire higher before they leave. The room feels warmer for their having been in it.

Spring comes.

One morning, after the physical training, Cassian does not immediately move into the next drill. He leans on the railing of the sparring ring and studies me.

“You’ve been carrying a lot of the formal protocol lately,” he says. “How would you feel about a full rest day? No kneeling, no titles, no structure beyond the ordinary. Just… a day.”

I blink. The offer is unexpected. The dynamic has become so woven into the fabric of my days that the idea of setting it down entirely feels strangely exposing.

Azriel, from his usual post at the edge of the space, adds, “It is not a test. It is an option. You may take it or leave it.”

I consider. The old version of me would have said yes immediately, eager to prove I did not *need* the structure. The current version of me checks in honestly.

“I think… I would like to keep a light version,” I say finally. “Titles optional. Kneeling only if I ask for it. But the check-ins stay. And if I start to spiral, we can put the full structure back.”

Cassian’s smile is slow and warm. “That’s my girl. Knowing what you need and saying it. That’s the whole point.”

Azriel inclines his head. “Agreed. Light protocol it is.”

The day that follows is soft. We walk the high paths above the camp. Cassian talks. Azriel listens and occasionally contributes a dry observation that makes both of us laugh. I do not kneel once. I do not call them Sir or Shadowsinger. And yet the care is still there—in the way Cassian matches his longer stride to mine without being asked, in the way Azriel’s shadows keep the worst of the wind off my face, in the easy silence that needs no filling. My system stays regulated not because the formal rules are present, but because the relationship itself has become a reliable container.

At the end of the day I find I miss the sharper edges of the formal dynamic, but I do not fear their absence. That feels like progress.

That night, before they leave me at my door, I ask for the kneeling anyway. Just for a few minutes. Just to close the day.

They give it without question.

Cassian’s hand rests on the crown of my head. Azriel’s presence settles on my other side like a second heartbeat. I breathe. They breathe with me. The mountain holds us all.

When I rise, the world feels steady.

“Thank you,” I say—not as a submissive, but as a person who has been well cared for.

Cassian grins. “Anytime.”

Azriel’s rare true smile appears, small and real. “Sleep well.”

I do.

The seasons turn again. The dynamic continues—sometimes intense, sometimes light, always mutual, always chosen. It is not the whole of our relationship. It is simply one of the ways we care for each other without complication or confusion. They hold the authority I give them. I give it because they have proven, again and again, that they will not use it to diminish me. For a nervous system that once had to track every social variable and sensory threat in real time, the relief of a clear, negotiated frame is profound. The noise does not disappear. But it becomes manageable. And manageable is enough to build a life inside.

In the quiet moments between drills and check-ins and the long companionable silences, I understand something I did not know when we began:

This was never about control for its own sake.

It was about trust made visible.

And trust, once made visible, becomes a place you can rest.

I rest there often.

They make sure of it.

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

I'm asking this anonymously because I'm shy how willing would you be to write a platonic dom sub relationship I'm asexual and have autism and adhd and the thought of having a platonic dom sounds amazing sometimes with how my brain works

EDIT! POSTED IN MASTERLIST AND BELOW!!! 🥰

The Edges They Hold

Plot

Being autistic, and having Adhd comes with many challenges, and the strictly platonic Dom/sub dynamic I share with Cassian and Azriel gives my nervous system the clear structure it needs. Rules, routines, safewords, kneeling, and steady check-ins quiet the constant noise of sensory overwhelm, decision fatigue, and masking.

Content Warning

Platonic Dominant/submissive dynamics (power exchange, kneeling, protocols, titles, safewords); autism and related experiences (sensory sensitivity, masking, decision fatigue, emotional/sensory overload, shutdown, interoception difficulties); mild physical training discomfort; emotional vulnerability, grief, and discussions of dependency and self-worth. No sexual content.

4.2k words.

I kneel on the cool stone of the training room floor the way they taught me. Spine straight, hands resting palms-up on my thighs, eyes lowered. The position is familiar now. It settles something restless inside my chest.

Before any of this, the world was too loud.

I am autistic. Bright lights, overlapping voices, unexpected changes, and the constant pressure to mask left me exhausted and overstimulated more days than not. Decision fatigue crushed me. Transitions felt like cliffs. I spent years trying to force myself into neurotypical rhythms and failing, then blaming myself for the failure. When I finally told Cassian and Azriel the truth—really told them, not the carefully edited version I usually offered—they did not flinch. They listened. Then they offered structure.

Not pity. Not a cure. A container.

Clear rules. Predictable routines. Explicit expectations. Permission to stop masking inside the dynamic. A way to hand over the constant low-level decision-making that drained me so I could save my energy for the things that mattered. Kneeling became a reset button for my nervous system. Titles and protocols gave my brain clean edges to lean against. The knowledge that two steady people were holding the frame let me drop the exhausting performance of “fine.” It is still work. It is still a choice every day. But it is the first thing that has ever made the noise inside my head quiet enough to hear myself think.

That is why I am here.

Cassian’s boots stop in front of me. I don’t look up. I wait.

“Good,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re already centered. That makes this easier.”

Azriel’s presence is quieter, but I feel him to my left like a shadow that chooses to be seen. He doesn’t speak yet. He rarely does when Cassian is setting the tone.

“Look at me,” Cassian orders.

I lift my eyes. His hazel gaze is steady, assessing, but not unkind. He crouches so we’re closer to eye level.

“Today is a long day,” he says. “We’re going to push. You’re going to stay in your headspace unless one of us pulls you out. You use your colors if you need to. Yellow to slow. Red to stop. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Az?”

Azriel’s voice is quieter, but it carries. “Same rules as always. You do not push past your limits to impress us. You do not hide discomfort. You speak when spoken to, or when you need to. Clear?”

“Yes, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel’s mouth almost curves. Almost. He has never asked me to call him that, but the first time I did it slipped out and he didn’t correct me. Cassian uses “Sir.” Azriel accepts the title that already belongs to him.

Cassian rises. “Stand.”

I stand. My knees ache faintly from the position, but the ache is grounding. He circles me once, checking posture the way he checks a warrior’s stance before a fight.

“Shoulders back. Chin level. You’re not collapsing today.” His hand brushes my upper back, a brief, firm correction. “Better. Now—breathe with me.”

We do the breathing exercise first. In for four, hold for four, out for six. Azriel joins without being asked, matching the count. The room smells of leather, steel, and the faint trace of the mountain wind that always seems to cling to both of them. The rhythm gives my nervous system something predictable to lock onto. The chaos of the morning—the too-bright light when I opened the shutters, the unexpected messenger in the corridor—starts to recede.

When the breathing ends, Cassian nods toward the sparring ring.

“Weapons work first. Then endurance. Then the quiet work.”

The quiet work is Azriel’s domain—stillness, focus, the kind of control that has nothing to do with blades.

I move to the rack and select the practice swords they prefer I use. Cassian takes his own. Azriel remains at the edge of the ring, watching. He always watches first.

Cassian does not go easy. He never does once the session begins. His strikes come hard and fast, testing my guard, my footwork, the way I recover when he knocks me off balance. Every time I falter he gives a short, sharp correction.

“Guard higher.”

“Weight on the balls of your feet.”

“Again.”

I obey. The dynamic makes obedience simple. There is no room for the usual noise in my head—the second-guessing, the fear of disappointing, the spiral of *what if I’m not enough*. There is only the next instruction and the choice to follow it. For someone whose brain spends so much energy predicting every possible social and sensory outcome, the relief of a single clear path is enormous.

When I miss a block and the wooden blade catches my ribs, Cassian stops immediately.

“Color.”

I check in with myself the way they taught me. The impact stung, but it is within what we have agreed is acceptable. “Green, Sir.”

He studies my face for a long second, then nods. “Continue.”

We work until my arms shake and sweat runs down my spine. Cassian finally steps back.

“Enough blades. Water. Then you run the perimeter with Azriel.”

I drink. Azriel is already at the door. He doesn’t look back to see if I’m following. He knows I will.

The mountain air is sharp. We run in silence. Azriel sets a pace that is demanding but not cruel. When my breathing grows ragged he glances over once.

“Still green?”

“Yes, Shadowsinger.”

He doesn’t slow, but he doesn’t push the pace higher either. That is how he cares—by paying attention without making a performance of it. The steady rhythm of footfalls and breath becomes another form of regulation. My body knows what to do. My mind can rest inside the motion.

We finish the circuit back at the training room. Cassian is waiting with a fresh set of wraps and a look that says the next part will be harder.

“Kneel.”

I kneel.

“Hands behind your back.”

I lace my fingers. The position opens my chest, makes breathing deeper, more deliberate. Cassian crouches again.

“We’re going to work on stillness. You will hold this while Azriel asks you questions. You will answer honestly. If you move without permission, we start the count over. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Azriel steps closer. His shadows curl faintly around his boots, restless but controlled.

“Why are you here today?” he asks.

The question is not about the training room. It never is.

I keep my eyes lowered the way they prefer during this work. “Because I asked for structure. Because I do better when someone else holds the edges. Because without it my brain tries to track everything at once and I shut down.”

“And if we were not here?”

“I would still try. But it would be harder. Louder inside. More masking. More recovery time I don’t have.”

Cassian’s hand rests briefly on the crown of my head—not petting, not soothing exactly. Anchoring. “Good. Keep going, Az.”

Azriel’s questions continue. Some are practical: how my body feels, whether the earlier impact still bothers me, what I need for the afternoon. Some go deeper: what I’m afraid of failing at, what I am protecting by staying small, what it would cost me to ask for more help than I already have.

I answer. When my shoulders start to creep upward with tension, Cassian’s voice cuts in, quiet but absolute.

“Drop them.”

I drop them.

Time stretches. My knees protest. My arms begin to ache from the locked position. I breathe through it the way they taught me—acknowledging the discomfort without letting it become the whole story. For my nervous system, this is practice in staying present instead of dissociating or spiraling. The external structure becomes internal regulation.

When Azriel finally says, “Enough,” Cassian is already moving to help me unfold. He doesn’t pull me up. He waits until I have released my hands, then offers his own.

“Stand slowly.”

I stand. The blood returns to my legs in a rush of pins and needles. Cassian steadies me with a hand at my elbow. Azriel brings a blanket—not because I’m cold, but because the transition out of deep headspace can leave me shaky, and the weight helps. Deep pressure has always been regulating for me. They learned that early and never forgot.

They guide me to the low bench against the wall. Cassian sits on one side, Azriel on the other. Neither of them crowds me. They simply bookend the space so I don’t have to hold myself up alone yet.

“Talk,” Cassian says. Not an order this time. An invitation with the weight of expectation behind it.

I tell them what the session felt like. Where I struggled. Where the quiet came easiest. They listen the way they always do—Cassian with open attention, Azriel with that focused stillness that makes every word feel received. No one rushes me to summarize or make it neat. They let the processing take the time it takes.

When I finish, Azriel speaks.

“You held longer than last time. Your answers were cleaner. You’re learning to stay with the discomfort instead of performing through it.”

Coming from him, the words land like praise and instruction at once.

Cassian bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. “Proud of you. But don’t let it go to your head. Tomorrow we do the endurance circuit again, and I’m not going to make it easier just because you looked steady while you suffered today.”

I huff a quiet laugh. The sound surprises me. It usually does, after the deep work.

Azriel’s shadows brush the edge of the blanket once, almost like a touch, then withdraw.

“Rest for twenty minutes,” he says. “Then we eat. After that, you have free time until evening check-in. Use it. Don’t fill it with tasks just because quiet feels dangerous.”

“Yes, Shadowsinger.”

Cassian stands and ruffles my hair once—quick, affectionate, entirely non-romantic. “Good girl. Now breathe. We’ve got you.”

I close my eyes and do exactly that.

The rest of the day unfolds inside the structure they have built with me.

At midday we eat together in the small room off the training hall. Cassian talks more than Azriel—stories about the war-band, complaints about the latest Illyrian politics, an outrageous exaggeration about a sparring match he won last week. Azriel interjects only when the exaggeration becomes too much, which makes Cassian grin wider. I am allowed to speak freely during meals unless they have set a quiet protocol. Today they have not. I tell them about the book I am reading. Cassian pretends to be scandalized that it contains no battles. Azriel asks one precise question about the author’s argument and then falls silent again, listening. The predictability of these meals—same room, same approximate time, same people—keeps my system from bracing for the unknown.

After the meal they release me.

Free time is part of the dynamic too. It is not an absence of structure; it is a structured absence. I am expected to notice what I need and meet it without waiting for them to direct every moment. Some days that means a nap. Some days it means walking the grounds until my thoughts settle. Today I sit in the weak afternoon sun with my back against the outer wall of the training complex and let the mountain air move through me. The pressure of the stone against my spine helps. The limited sensory input helps. I do not have to perform “relaxed.” I simply am.

When the light begins to change I return.

Evening check-in is quieter than the morning work. We gather in the same room. I kneel again, but the posture is softer now—less formal, more habitual. Cassian sits in the low chair. Azriel leans against the wall, arms folded, shadows calm.

“Report,” Cassian says.

I tell them how the free hours went. What I chose. What I avoided. Whether anything from the morning session is still echoing. They listen. Sometimes they ask follow-up questions. Sometimes they simply nod. The ritual of reporting externalizes the internal inventory my brain tries to run constantly. Once it is spoken and received, the loop can quiet.

When I am finished, Azriel speaks.

“You did well today. You stayed present. You used your words when you needed to. That is the work.”

Cassian leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Anything you need from us before we release you for the night?”

I consider the question the way they have taught me to—honestly, without rushing to say *nothing*.

“Could I… stay in protocol a little longer? Just until I sleep. The quiet helps.”

Cassian glances at Azriel. Something wordless passes between them. Then Cassian nods.

“All right. Kneeling optional. Spoken protocol stays in place until you are in your rooms and the door is closed. After that you are free. If you need either of us in the night, you use the signal. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He stands and offers a hand. I take it and rise. Azriel pushes off the wall and falls into step on my other side as we leave the training complex.

The walk back toward the living quarters is unhurried. The mountain night is cold and clean. Neither of them speaks unless I do. The silence is companionable, held in place by the structure we have all agreed to keep. For my nervous system, the absence of pressure to fill the quiet is a gift.

At my door Cassian stops. Azriel does too.

“Color?” Cassian asks, one last time.

I check in. The day has been long and demanding, but I am steady. “Green, Sir.”

“Then sleep. We’ll see you at dawn.”

Azriel’s voice is quieter. “You did well. Rest.”

I bow my head the way I do at the end of formal time—small, deliberate. “Thank you. Both of you.”

Cassian’s hand lands briefly on my shoulder. Warm. Steady. Then they are gone, footsteps fading down the corridor, and I am alone with the quiet they helped me build.

I close the door. The protocol lifts the moment the latch clicks, exactly as agreed. I move through the small evening routines—washing, changing, banking the fire—without the weight of being observed. The freedom feels earned rather than empty. The routines themselves are another form of regulation: same order, same motions, same sensory sequence every night.

When I finally lie down, the mountain wind moves against the stone outside. Somewhere beyond the walls two Illyrian warriors are keeping their own counsel, the same way they keep mine: carefully, consistently, without needing to make a spectacle of the care.

I close my eyes.

Tomorrow we will begin again.

The days that follow settle into a rhythm that is both demanding and strangely gentle.

Mornings belong to the body. Cassian runs the physical training with the same relentless attention he gives his warriors. He corrects form, pushes endurance, demands honesty about pain versus injury. When I push too hard he stops me with a single word. When I hold back he sees it and names it without cruelty. The dynamic keeps the work clean. There is no room for the old patterns of performing competence or hiding struggle. He asks; I answer; we adjust. For a brain that struggles with interoception and sometimes misses its own signals until they become overwhelming, the external accountability is protective.

Afternoons often belong to Azriel. Stillness. Focus. The quieter disciplines. He teaches me how to hold a posture until the mind stops arguing with it. How to track breath until thought becomes optional. How to sit with discomfort without turning it into a story about failure. His praise is rare and precise. His corrections are the same. I learn to trust both. The stillness work is especially useful on high-sensory days; it gives my system a deliberate low-input container instead of the chaotic under-stimulation that sometimes hits just as hard as overload.

Evenings are for integration. We talk. Sometimes the talk is practical—what worked, what needs changing, whether the protocols still serve. Sometimes it is deeper. Cassian has a gift for asking the question that unlocks the thing I have been circling. Azriel has a gift for sitting with the silence that follows until the real answer surfaces. Neither of them fills the quiet with reassurance I did not ask for. They let me find the words at the speed my processing allows.

There are harder days.

One afternoon the stillness work breaks something open I was not ready to look at. Grief, sharp and sudden, for a version of myself I left behind years ago—the one who thought if she just masked hard enough the world would finally make sense. I use the color. Yellow first. Then, when the wave does not pass, red.

They stop everything.

Cassian is on the floor with me in seconds, not crowding, just present. Azriel’s shadows form a loose perimeter, as if holding the space itself. No one tells me to breathe through it or be strong. They simply wait while I shake and cry and eventually go quiet again. The lack of pressure to regulate for their comfort is itself regulating.

When I can speak, Cassian’s voice is soft.

“We’ve got you. Nothing to prove. Take the time you need.”

Azriel brings water. He does not offer empty comfort. He offers presence, which is better.

We do not resume the formal work that day. Instead they keep me close in the informal way—Cassian telling stories that require no response, Azriel existing nearby like a reliable shadow. By nightfall the sharp edge has dulled. I sleep without dreams.

The next morning Cassian checks in before we begin.

“Still green enough to work?”

I consider it carefully. “Yes, Sir. But maybe… lighter today.”

He nods once. “Then we go lighter. You set the pace until you’re ready to hand it back.”

I do. And when I am ready, I hand it back. The trust goes both ways. The dynamic only works because I am allowed to renegotiate it in real time.

Weeks pass. The mountain seasons shift. My body grows stronger. My mind grows quieter. The protocols become less like external rules and more like a language we all speak fluently. On high-masking days I lean harder into the formal structure. On lower-demand days we soften it. The flexibility is built in; rigidity would defeat the purpose.

One evening, after a particularly deep session, Azriel speaks while I am still kneeling in the soft afterglow of the work.

“You have changed,” he says. Not praise exactly. Observation. “You take up space differently now. You ask for what you need without apologizing for the asking.”

Cassian, sprawled in the chair with the easy confidence of a man who has never doubted his right to occupy a room, grins. “She’s becoming a menace. Next she’ll be ordering *us* around.”

I smile at the floor. “Unlikely, Sir.”

“Good. I like my job.”

Azriel’s near-smile appears again. “So do I.”

The moment holds—warm, steady, entirely without complication. This is what the dynamic has given us: a way to care for one another that is clear, boundaried, and free of the usual confusions. They hold authority because I give it and because they are capable of carrying it responsibly. I surrender because it frees me. The exchange is clean.

Later, when they walk me back to my rooms, Cassian’s hand finds the back of my neck in a brief, grounding squeeze.

“Proud of you,” he says quietly. “Not for the endurance. For the honesty. That’s the harder work.”

Azriel adds, almost too soft to hear, “Rest well. We will be here in the morning.”

I believe him.

I always do.

There are missions that take them away for days at a time. Before each departure we tighten the protocols—clearer check-ins, written instructions for the days they are gone, a signal system if I need to reach them urgently. The structure travels with me even when they cannot. Predictability in their absence matters as much as predictability in their presence. When they return, the first thing we do is re-establish contact: kneeling, report, physical check-in if the separation was long. The ritual settles us all. My nervous system recognizes the sequence and begins to downshift before the conversation even starts.

There is a night, deep in winter, when the wind howls hard enough to rattle the shutters and I cannot sleep. The sensory assault of the storm plus the isolation tips me into overload. I use the signal. Cassian appears first, hair mussed, expression already shifting into the focused calm he wears when someone needs him. Azriel arrives minutes later, shadows restless from the weather. They do not ask questions immediately. They simply sit—Cassian on the floor with his back against my bedframe, Azriel in the chair by the window—until the storm inside me matches the one outside and then gradually quietens. No one demands eye contact. No one fills the silence with forced conversation. They offer co-regulation without requiring performance.

When I can speak, I tell them about the old fear that still surfaces sometimes: that if I stop performing competence, people will leave. That needing structure makes me weak. That one day they will decide the dynamic is too much trouble.

Cassian listens all the way to the end. Then he says, with absolute certainty, “We’re not going anywhere. You could need ten times this and we would still be here. The dynamic exists because it works—for you and for us. If it ever stops working, we adjust. We don’t abandon.”

Azriel’s voice is quieter, but no less firm. “You are not a burden. You are a person we choose to hold structure for. There is a difference.”

I cry again, but it is the good kind—the kind that releases instead of wounds. When it passes, Cassian ruffles my hair and tells me to sleep. Azriel banks the fire higher before they leave. The room feels warmer for their having been in it.

Spring comes.

One morning, after the physical training, Cassian does not immediately move into the next drill. He leans on the railing of the sparring ring and studies me.

“You’ve been carrying a lot of the formal protocol lately,” he says. “How would you feel about a full rest day? No kneeling, no titles, no structure beyond the ordinary. Just… a day.”

I blink. The offer is unexpected. The dynamic has become so woven into the fabric of my days that the idea of setting it down entirely feels strangely exposing.

Azriel, from his usual post at the edge of the space, adds, “It is not a test. It is an option. You may take it or leave it.”

I consider. The old version of me would have said yes immediately, eager to prove I did not *need* the structure. The current version of me checks in honestly.

“I think… I would like to keep a light version,” I say finally. “Titles optional. Kneeling only if I ask for it. But the check-ins stay. And if I start to spiral, we can put the full structure back.”

Cassian’s smile is slow and warm. “That’s my girl. Knowing what you need and saying it. That’s the whole point.”

Azriel inclines his head. “Agreed. Light protocol it is.”

The day that follows is soft. We walk the high paths above the camp. Cassian talks. Azriel listens and occasionally contributes a dry observation that makes both of us laugh. I do not kneel once. I do not call them Sir or Shadowsinger. And yet the care is still there—in the way Cassian matches his longer stride to mine without being asked, in the way Azriel’s shadows keep the worst of the wind off my face, in the easy silence that needs no filling. My system stays regulated not because the formal rules are present, but because the relationship itself has become a reliable container.

At the end of the day I find I miss the sharper edges of the formal dynamic, but I do not fear their absence. That feels like progress.

That night, before they leave me at my door, I ask for the kneeling anyway. Just for a few minutes. Just to close the day.

They give it without question.

Cassian’s hand rests on the crown of my head. Azriel’s presence settles on my other side like a second heartbeat. I breathe. They breathe with me. The mountain holds us all.

When I rise, the world feels steady.

“Thank you,” I say—not as a submissive, but as a person who has been well cared for.

Cassian grins. “Anytime.”

Azriel’s rare true smile appears, small and real. “Sleep well.”

I do.

The seasons turn again. The dynamic continues—sometimes intense, sometimes light, always mutual, always chosen. It is not the whole of our relationship. It is simply one of the ways we care for each other without complication or confusion. They hold the authority I give them. I give it because they have proven, again and again, that they will not use it to diminish me. For a nervous system that once had to track every social variable and sensory threat in real time, the relief of a clear, negotiated frame is profound. The noise does not disappear. But it becomes manageable. And manageable is enough to build a life inside.

In the quiet moments between drills and check-ins and the long companionable silences, I understand something I did not know when we began:

This was never about control for its own sake.

It was about trust made visible.

And trust, once made visible, becomes a place you can rest.

I rest there often.

They make sure of it.

[thecrimsonstarofvelaris]

Feeling feral again....

Here's a little Cassian x Azriel x Female!reader filth🤭

@danikamariewrites this is for you lovely 🥰

Three’s Company, 4 Is More.

PLOT

You, Azriel and Cassian have been a committed throuple since college and share an apartment with their friend Rhysand. The three of you frequently have loud, explicit sex and keep getting caught mid-act by Rhys. After multiple interruptions, Cassian and Azriel finally invite him to join.

CONTENT WARNING

Explicit sexual content, threesome/foursome, rough sex, bondage, edging, marking/claiming, oral, anal, dual penetration, and voyeurism. All characters are consenting adults.

2.8k words

We met in college.

Cassian was the loud one on the rugby team, always laughing too hard and dragging people into trouble. Azriel was quieter, the one who watched everything from the edges until he decided you were worth his time. I was the girl who kept ending up in the same late-night study groups and house parties as both of them. One night turned into three of us tangled in Cassian’s tiny dorm bed. Then it kept happening. By senior year we were already a throuple, even if we didn’t have the word for it yet.

After graduation we moved into a three-bedroom apartment with Rhysand—Cassian’s oldest friend from home. Rhys knew what we were from the start. He rolled his eyes, called us heathens, and claimed the biggest bedroom as his tax for putting up with the noise. Five years later we’re still here. Still fucking like animals. Still getting caught.

I’m pressed between them on the oversized sectional in the living room of the apartment the three of us share, Cassian’s thick thigh under my ass, Azriel’s lean body caging me from behind.

Cassian’s mouth is already on my neck, biting hard enough to mark. Azriel’s hand is down the front of my shorts, two fingers sliding through the mess between my legs like he owns it.

“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Azriel murmurs against my ear, voice low and rough. “Been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?”

I nod, grinding back against the hard line of his cock. Cassian laughs, the sound dark, and shoves my tank top up so he can get his mouth on my tits. He sucks one nipple hard, teeth scraping, then switches to the other, leaving them wet and red.

“My turn to choose,” Cassian says against my skin. His kink is ownership—marking, claiming, making sure everyone knows I’m theirs. He likes to leave bruises and come on my face and throat so it drips down while he watches.

Azriel’s is control through sensation. He likes to blindfold me, edge me until I’m shaking, then fuck me slow and deep while Cassian holds me open. He gets off on the way I break for him.

Mine is being used. I want them both at once, messy, loud, no mercy. I want to be their toy until I can’t think.

Cassian peels my shorts and panties off in one yank. Azriel’s fingers leave my cunt just long enough for Cassian to shove two of his own inside me, thick and rough. I moan, head tipping back onto Azriel’s shoulder.

“Look at that pretty cunt taking him,” Azriel says. He reaches around and spreads me open for Cassian’s view, thumbs on my outer lips. “She’s dripping for us.”

Cassian curls his fingers and finds the spot that makes my thighs shake. “Gonna fuck this hole until it’s ruined. Then Az is gonna take it while I fill your mouth.”

I whimper. “Please—”

Azriel’s free hand covers my mouth. “Not yet. We decide when you get to cum.”

They strip the rest of the way. Cassian’s cock is thick, heavy, already leaking. Azriel’s is long and curved, the head flushed dark. I reach for both of them at once, stroking, and they let me for a few seconds before Cassian stands and hauls me up.

He sits back down and pulls me onto his lap facing him. Azriel stays behind me, hands on my hips. Cassian lines up and sinks into me in one hard thrust. I cry out at the stretch. He’s so fucking big.

“That’s it. Take it.” He grips my waist and starts fucking up into me, deep and relentless. Azriel’s cock slides between my ass cheeks, the head catching on my rim, I moan at the sensation every time Cassian bottoms out.

“Soon,” Azriel promises. He spits on his fingers and works one into my ass while Cassian keeps pounding me. The dual sensation makes my eyes roll.

Cassian leans in and bites my shoulder hard enough to bruise. “You’re ours. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp. “Both of yours—”

A key turns in the lock.

Rhysand walks in mid-thrust, still in his work clothes, phone in one hand. He freezes for half a second, then his mouth curves upwards, just slightly.

“Again? Really?”

Cassian doesn’t stop. He just grins over my shoulder and keeps fucking me. “You walked in. Your fault.”

Azriel’s finger is still in my ass. He doesn’t pull out either. “Close the door if you’re staying.”

Rhys sighs like he’s dealing with children, kicks the door shut, and drops his bag. “I’m getting a drink. Don’t finish before I leave the room at least.”

He walks past us to the kitchen. Cassian laughs and flips me onto my back on the couch, never completely pulling out. He hooks my legs over his shoulders and drives home harder. Azriel moves to the side, strokes himself while he watches Cassian wreck me.

Rhys comes back with a glass of water, leans against the wall, and watches for a minute like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

“You’re both animals,” he says, but there’s no real heat in it. He’s used to this.

Cassian reaches down and rubs my clit with his thumb. “She’s close. Watch her cum on my cock.”

I do. The orgasm hits hard, cunt clamping down, Cassian curses and keeps thrusting through it. Azriel leans in and kisses me hard while I shake.

Rhys finishes his water, sets the glass down, and heads for his room. “Try not to break the couch this time.”

The second the bedroom door closes, Azriel and Cassian switch. Azriel pulls me off Cassian’s cock, turns me onto my hands and knees, and slides into my cunt from behind. He’s slower, deeper, angling so he hits that spot every time. Cassian kneels in front of me and feeds me his cock, still wet from me.

“Suck,” he orders.

I do. He fists my hair and uses my mouth while Azriel fucks me steady and relentless. Every thrust pushes me farther onto Cassian’s cock. Spit runs down my chin.

Azriel’s hand cracks across my ass. “Gonna cum in this cunt. Then Cassian’s going to fill your mouth and make you swallow.”

I moan around the cock in my throat. Cassian groans and starts thrusting harder.

Azriel’s rhythm stutters. He comes with a low sound, burying himself deep and pulsing inside me. The heat of it makes me clench. He stays in for a few more slow strokes, then pulls out. Cum leaks down my thighs.

Cassian pulls out of my mouth, strokes himself twice, and cums across my tongue and lips. I swallow what I can. He smears the rest over my mouth with his thumb.

“Good girl.”

Azriel collapses onto the couch and pulls me into his lap, back to his chest. Cassian drops beside us, one heavy arm across both of us.

We’re still catching our breath when Rhys’s door opens again. He walks out in sweatpants, glances at the three of us—me marked and leaking, both of them half-hard again—and just shakes his head.

“I’m ordering food. You three get cleaned up before it gets here or I’m making you eat on the floor.”

Cassian flips him off without looking. Azriel’s hand slides between my legs again, fingers pushing his own spend back inside me.

“Round two after food,” he murmurs against my ear.

I turn my head and kiss him, tasting Cassian on my tongue.

Cassian’s hand finds my tit and squeezes. “Yeah. And next time Rhys walks in, I’m not stopping until he sees her cum at least twice.”

Azriel’s fingers curl inside me. “Deal.”

---

Later

We’re in the shower this time. The glass is fogged. Cassian has me pinned against the tile, one of my legs hooked over his arm, fucking me hard while the water runs over us. Azriel is behind him, mouth on his neck, hand reaching around to play with my clit.

Cassian’s kink is on full display—he’s biting my throat, leaving a dark mark right where anyone will see. Every thrust is possessive. “Gonna keep you full all night. Walk around the apartment leaking us both.”

Azriel’s voice is quieter, more dangerous. “After this I’m tying your wrists to the headboard and edging you until you cry. Then I’ll let Cassian fuck your throat while I take your ass.”

I cum hard around Cassian’s cock just from the words. He curses and follows, grinding deep as he fills me.

The bathroom door opens.

Rhys stands there, arms crossed, completely unimpressed. “I can hear you from the hallway. The whole floor can probably hear you.”

Cassian doesn’t pull out. He just looks over his shoulder and grins, still buried in me. “Then close the door and stop watching.”

Rhys’s eyes flick down to where Cassian is still inside me, cum already starting to drip around his cock. Azriel’s fingers are still on my clit.

“I’m going out,” Rhys says flatly. “Try not to flood the apartment.”

He leaves.

Azriel laughs against Cassian’s shoulder. “He’s going to start charging us rent in trauma.”

Cassian finally pulls out. Cum runs down my thigh. He drops to his knees right there in the shower and licks it up, tongue fucking into me while Azriel holds me open.

I cum again, shaking, before they even get me to the bed.

---

Midnight

I’m on my back in our bed, wrists bound to the headboard with one of Azriel’s soft leather cuffs. Blindfold on. Exactly how he likes me.

Cassian is between my legs, eating me out like he’s starving, two fingers stretching me open. Azriel is beside me, mouth on my nipple, other hand stroking his cock slow.

“You’re not allowed to cum until I say,” Azriel reminds me. His voice is silk and steel. “Cassian’s going to get you right to the edge and stop. Over and over.”

Cassian does. Every time my thighs start to shake he pulls back, blows cool air over my clit, waits until I settle, then dives back in. I’m sobbing by the fourth time.

“Please—Az—”

“Not yet.” He leans down and kisses me, slow and deep, while Cassian keeps tormenting me.

The bedroom door opens.

Rhys’s voice, resigned. “I forgot my charger.”

He walks in, sees me tied and blindfolded, Cassian’s face buried between my legs, Azriel’s cock in his own hand, and just sighs.

“I’m not even surprised anymore.”

He crosses to the nightstand, grabs the charger, and leaves without another word. The door clicks shut.

Azriel’s laugh is quiet. “He’s going to start announcing himself.”

Cassian lifts his head. “Or start joining. One of these days.”

Azriel’s fingers find my clit and circle. “Maybe. But not tonight. Tonight you’re ours.”

I moan at the thought of it.

He finally gives the order. “Cum.”

Cassian sucks hard on my clit and I shatter, screaming into the dark of the blindfold. They don’t stop. Cassian keeps licking me through it while Azriel unties one wrist just long enough to flip me onto my stomach, then re-cuffs me.

He works lube into my ass with careful fingers while Cassian moves up and feeds me his cock again.

“Open,” Cassian says. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth while Az takes your ass.”

Azriel pushes in slow, the stretch burning perfect. Once he’s seated he stays still, letting me adjust, gripping my hips, while Cassian starts using my throat.

Then Azriel moves. Deep, controlled strokes that make me feel every inch. Cassian matches his rhythm. I’m full of both of them, drooling around Cassian’s cock, Azriel’s hands tighten on my hips.

“Such a good little slut for us,” Azriel murmurs. “Taking both your boys so well.”

Cassian cums first, flooding my mouth. I swallow everything. Azriel follows a minute later, burying himself deep and filling my ass.

They stay like that for a long moment—Cassian’s cock softening on my tongue, Azriel still pulsing inside me—before carefully pulling free.

Azriel uncuffs me and removes the blindfold. Cassian pulls me into the middle of the bed between them.

I’m a mess. Marked, used, full of them both. Exactly how I want to be.

Cassian’s hand rests heavy on my stomach. Azriel’s fingers stroke through my hair.

“Sleep,” Azriel says softly. “We’ll wake you up when we’re ready for more.”

I close my eyes, smiling into Cassian’s chest.

---

Two nights later

We’re on the couch again, half-dressed, lazy after dinner. I’m straddling Cassian’s lap, grinding slowly while Azriel watches from the other end, one hand down his own sweatpants. Rhys is in the armchair across from us, scrolling his phone like he isn’t acutely aware of the wet sounds every time I roll my hips.

Cassian’s hands are on my ass, guiding me. He glances over at Rhys, then at Azriel. Something silent passes between the three of them.

Cassian’s voice is casual when he speaks. “You’ve been watching for years, Rhys.”

Rhys doesn’t look up. “Hard not to when you three fuck like you’re trying to get the building condemned.”

Azriel’s eyes are dark. “We’re offering. Properly. Join us.”

That gets Rhys’s attention. He lowers the phone. Looks at me first—still rocking on Cassian’s cock, lips parted—then at the two of them.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” Cassian says. He lifts me just enough to show how wet I am, how easily I’m taking him. “She’s into it. We’re into it. You’ve been hard for half the nights you’ve walked in on us. Stop pretending.”

Rhys’s jaw works. For a long moment the only sound is my soft moan as Cassian thrusts up.

Then Rhys stands, sets the phone aside, and walks over. He stops in front of us, looks down at where Cassian is buried inside me, and finally meets my eyes.

“You want this?”

I nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He reaches out, cups my face, and kisses me—slow at first, then deeper, tasting the way I already belong to the other two. When he pulls back his voice is rough.

“Then get on your knees.”

Cassian lifts me off his cock. I drop to the floor between all three of them. Rhys shoves his sweatpants down. He’s thick, already hard, the head shiny. I take him into my mouth without being told.

Azriel moves behind me, pushing my shoulders down so my ass is up. He slides into my cunt in one smooth thrust while I suck Rhys. Cassian stays on the couch, stroking himself, watching everything with that possessive heat in his eyes.

“Look at her,” Cassian says. “Taking all three of us like she was made for it.”

Rhys’s hand settles in my hair. He doesn’t thrust hard—just holds me while I work him, letting Azriel set the rhythm that pushes me deeper onto his cock.

Azriel fucks me steady and deep, one hand reaching around to rub my clit. “She’s already close.”

Rhys’s breath hitches. “Fuck.”

Cassian leans forward, tips my chin up so I have to look at him while I suck Rhys. “After he cums down your throat, I’m going to fuck you while he watches. Then Az gets your ass. You’re going to be full of all three of us before the night’s over.”

I moan around Rhys’s cock. The vibration makes him curse. His hips stutter and he cums, hot and thick across my tongue. I swallow everything, eyes still locked on Cassian.

The second Rhys pulls free, Cassian hauls me up and onto his lap again, sinking back into my cunt with a groan. Rhys stays close, one hand on my tit, thumb circling a nipple while he watches Cassian claim me. Azriel moves behind me, lubed fingers working into my ass.

“Ready?” Azriel asks.

I nod, already shaking.

He pushes in slow. The stretch is intense—Cassian in my cunt, Azriel in my ass, Rhys’s mouth now on my neck, biting just under Cassian’s earlier mark. I’m completely full, completely used, exactly the way I crave.

They move together. Cassian fucking up, Azriel fucking deep, Rhys’s hands and mouth everywhere. The dual stretch and the third set of hands push me over the edge fast. I cum hard, crying out, clenching around both of them.

Cassian follows with a rough groan, filling me. Azriel lasts longer, controlled even now, until he finally buries himself and cums with a low sound against my shoulder.

We stay tangled for a long minute, breathing hard, sticky, connected.

Rhys is the first to speak, voice wry. “I’m still not paying extra rent for this.”

Cassian laughs, the sound vibrating through me. “Fair. But you’re definitely helping clean the couch.”

Azriel’s mouth curves against my skin. “Tomorrow night we use the bed. Properly.”

I turn my head and kiss him, then Cassian, then Rhys.

We’re going to need a bigger bed.

[danikamariewrites]

you ever come up with a scenario in your head with a fictional character and think damn i should make that a fanfic but then you think nah i want this to stay in my head 😵‍💫

if you asked yourself, is she thinking of Azriel and Cassian you would be correct