Summary - Feyre was a High Lady. Nesta was a Valkyrie. Elain was a Seer.
And she was the sister the Cauldron ruined and forgot.
Invisible in a family of legends, haunted by nightmares no one noticed, she learned to stay quiet... to expect nothing.
Except Azriel noticed. The Shadowsinger who never spoke too much saw everything—her pain, her loneliness... and the bond between them she didn't even know existed.
When the world decides she is the easiest one to break—Azriel will make them suffer for it.
A/n - As always content warnings will be at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.
This is my very first Archeron sister fic! For the sake of the story, I've had to make the sisters a little harsh at times but that's purely for plot reasons, not an invitation to throw shade at them x
Expect healing, found family vibes, and basically an overlooked girl x quiet boy kind of story. There will be heartbreak, angst and eventually fluff :)
Please don't hesitate to vote or comment along the way, it truly means the world to me <3
could you do cassian with a shy mate who doesn't know how to react to causal intimacy??
sure. now, i sort of assumed with casual intimacy you mean like physical touch? sorry if i misinterpreted!
Cassian x shy!reader who is getting used to Cassian's touch [859 words]
CW: fem!reader, mates, Cassian's love language is physical touch, reader hates being perceived, rhys won't stop perceiving her, fluff
You try not to react outwardly when Cassian’s large hand lands on your knee, but you doubt that you do a very good job.
The touch itself isn’t particularly scandalous; his palm doesn’t stray anywhere impolite, yet it feels like a branding iron all the same.
Cassian is simply a touchy guy. His job is physical in itself, requiring him to help warriors get into proper positions, sparring, stretching, the whole shebang. And if that wasn’t bad enough, you’ve seen the way he is with his family.
The male constantly has an arm thrown around whoever finds themselves within grabbing reach. Flipping a lock of Mor’s hair up into her face, clapping Azriel on the shoulder, hip-checking Feyre out of his way, brushing his shoulder up against Rhysand’s like the two of them are conspiring (they probably are).
So of course, it should come as no surprise that Cassian is equally as tactile with his mate.
Yet, it manages to surprise you every time.
It’s likely due to a combination of factors. Your family was never overly affectionate in this way; hugs and kisses fizzled out rather quickly in your youth and now, hugs are merely reserved for hellos and goodbyes.
It’s also probably in part that you’re a horribly shy creature and don’t wish to be perceived in any capacity, and Cassian’s hand landing on your knee only goes to alert you to the fact that you are, indeed, a perceivable being.
If it’s at all possible, you shrink even further into yourself, hoping to eventually blend into the cushion of the loveseat that you’re currently occupying. You’re silently chanting don’t look, don’t look, don’t look as you scan the room to see who might be looking in your direction.
Cassian must hate you, though, because he lets out a sharp bark of laughter that has the majority of the room turning to look at him; sitting so close to him, you’re thus perceived by association.
He launches into some story that apparently requires both hands to accurately recall it, lifting his palm from where it was warming your knee and leaving it cold in his wake.
Great, now you miss his touch. You – ever so slowly – shift in your seat, crossing one leg over the other in a poor attempt to recreate some of Cassian’s warmth.
You fail, and you look up to find that Rhysand has witnessed your hopeless aim at self-soothing, the male sending you a comforting wink that brings you no comfort at all and sees you subconsciously shifting further into Cassian’s side, wondering if he might not extend his wing for you to hide behind.
Cassian must’ve felt you thinking about him, or maybe he really does just hate you, because he chooses that moment to turn in his seat in order to look at you. It requires him to shift his entire body since you’ve all but melted into the cushions behind him.
“You doin’ okay, gorgeous?”
You hum in the affirmative but the sound is all wrong; pitchy, high, and a little bit wobbly.
“What’re you doing back there, hm?”
Busted.
“Hiding,” you admit, knowing better than to lie to him (again).
This time it’s Cassian who hums the affirmative, turning even further in his seat until his knees brush yours and you are granted the entirety of his attention. “Rhys said you look like you’re trying to figure out how to winnow.”
You turn to look at the offending male who has the audacity to wink at you.
Squealer.
Rhysand throws his head back in laughter; you might have thought that particular thought a little too loudly.
“Awe, don’t be mad at him, sweetheart,” Cassian chuckles, calloused fingers tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear before hooking underneath your chin and tilting your face up towards him. “He can’t help but notice the most beautiful fae in the room.”
“Cassian,” you hiss, face heating at his blatant flattery and you’d like for his hand to move away from your cheeks lest he realize what effect he’s having on you. “His mate’s sitting right there.”
“I said what I said.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” You whisper, closing your eyes in resignation though you can’t help the smile that dances at the corners of your lips.
“Doing what?” Cassian replies with a laugh that fans across your face. “What am I doing to you, huh?”
“Torturing me.”
“I’m loving you,” he counters proudly. “You’ve got a problem with that, sweetheart?”
“Maybe I do.”
Cassian lets out a huff of acknowledgement. “Yeah? Well, tough.”
He punctuates the sentiment with a gentle kiss to your lips before he finally lets go of your jaw, but he takes a moment to bump his nose against yours before pulling away as a silent apology for any discomfort. You both know if you truly had an issue, though, that he’d back off.
His hand doesn’t stray far, however, returning to your knee as he jumps back into the conversation happening around him, this time the touch is paired with the occasional squeeze or a stroke of his thumb along your inner knee.
azriel x reader
summary: reader had been sent on a mission on the continent for weeks, and was going to miss this year’s solstice celebration. rhysand decided that the only way to cure a brooding azriel was a surprise visit home from his mate.
wc: 2.4k
The Inner Circle knew Azriel well enough to tell that he was brooding. On a regular day, most people mistook the spymaster's usual silence for agitation, but his family knew that he simply preferred to listen. His behaviour for the last six weeks however - this had become incessant brooding.
The first two weeks you were gone, he was tolerable. Given your positions in the court, both of you were used to being sent away for brief trips that separated you. You had learned how to cope with small lengths of time away from each other. He had gone about his days as usual; training in the morning with Cassian, and checking in with his spies in the afternoon for any new information.
The next three weeks, he was on edge. It wasn’t uncommon for a mission to stretch on for a month, but the distance definitely wasn’t comfortable. By this point, Azriel had resorted to keeping himself occupied at any given moment - he stayed out all day, and drank at night to keep himself from dwelling on how much he missed having you by his side. It snowed plenty in those weeks, and he had to stop himself from scowling in your absence each time he remembered the way you would light up at the sight of the snow falling outside your window.
By the sixth week, the Inner Circle knew to tread lightly around the male. Everyone around him was abuzz at the spirit of solstice, but the shadowsinger had no holiday spirit. You wouldn’t be returning until just before the new year, and he didn’t feel very festive without you. Mor would ask him what he wanted as a solstice gift, and he simply huffed in response. His brothers had endless smack talk, taunting each other over who would win this year’s snowball fight, but the male stayed silent - he didn’t care about the outcome because he wouldn’t have you there to celebrate his victory.
Azriel did what he could to not put a damper on everyone else’s solstice spirit - he helped decorate the river house to make sure everything was orderly, he bought everyone gifts, and made sure to get Nyx a few noisy toys that would give Rhys a headache. On solstice morning, he got up with his brothers to participate in the annual snowball fight, and he put in as much effort as he could muster. He did enough to put a smile on his family’s faces, but he wasn’t fully present. He wouldn’t be, unless you were there with him.
As evening arrived, the entire family gathered at the river house to eat dinner together, celebrate Feyre’s birthday, and open presents. The group had chosen to open presents first this year - Nyx couldn’t stay awake long enough, so they decided to get the gifts out of the way and enjoy an adult-only dinner when he had been put to bed.
Everyone wanted to see Nyx’s reaction to his gifts, so he opened them first while the others watched. The toddler giggled at the sound of wrapping paper being opened, and Azriel couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto his face at the child’s glee. You might not have been there, but his heart still felt warm being with the rest of his family. The happiness in the room was contagious, and despite the shadows skittering restlessly around the room, he felt at peace with his family around him.
Rhys shot Azriel an annoyed look as Nyx opened up his final gift; a child’s drum kit that the shadowsinger had purchased with the sole intention of pissing off his brother. Feyre also looked weary as she looked at her son, who was already causing a ruckus with his new toy.
“And to think I got you the best gift you could have asked for, and you punish me with this,” Rhys joked, exasperation in his voice.
Azriel raised an eyebrow. “You got me the best gift I could have asked for? That’s high praise.”
Rhys looked at his brother, a smug smile on his face. “If you can seriously think of any gift you’d like more than what I brought you, I will personally wear a tutu and go out into the streets of Velaris.”
Cassian’s eyebrows shot up at that. “Did you buy him a palace or something, how are you this confident?”
Rhys simply shrugged, to which Azriel narrowed his eyes. “Well let’s see, if you’re so sure.”
Azriel couldn’t even begin to guess what Rhys had bought him. At their age, gift giving was hard - everyone already had every material item they needed, so the holidays were filled with gag gifts, or items that ended up in a drawer unused. The only thing he wanted for solstice was you, and the day had already proven to be lacking in that area.
Rhys stood up and left the room with a mischievous smile on his face, everyone’s eyes trailing him.
“What could he possibly have gotten?” Cassian asked no one in particular, trying to think of what his brother would have wanted as a gift.
Nesta, who was pressed against Cassian’s side, looked to Feyre. “Are you in on this?”
Feyre shook her head, equally as confused as everyone else in the room. “I have no idea what he got any of you.”
Mor, on the other side of the room, crossed her arms. “Well whatever it is, he better have given this much consideration to all of our gifts, it’s no fair if Azriel gets something spectacular and the rest of us get mediocre gifts.”
The High Lord reappeared in the doorway, a small box in his hands. Considering how much Rhys had been boasting about his present, everyone looked skeptically at the size of the box.
“Are there keys to Azriel’s palace in that box?” Cassian muttered, though loud enough for everyone to hear.
Rhys passed the box to Feyre, who handed it off to Azriel, the daemati’s eyes still twinkling with mischief. The box was small and surprisingly light, with a red ribbon tied around it for some festive flair. Azriel looked down at it, mildly afraid of whatever it contained.
“Open it,” Rhys urged, leaning in the doorframe, everyone in the room watching expectantly.
Azriel finally pried his eyes away from his brother, going to untie the ribbon. He took it off gently, and opened the lid of the box to find…
“Gloves?” Mor asked, no doubt surprised that it was - frankly, a quite nice - pair of gloves inside the box. Azriel’s name was stitched into the material, but it was nowhere near the calibre of gift that everyone had begun expecting.
Azriel furrowed his eyebrows together, thinking about how they’d all be seeing Rhys in a tutu very soon. He lifted his gaze to Rhys and started to make the retort when the words died on his tongue.
While everyone had been focused on Azriel unboxing his new gloves, Rhys had moved out of the doorframe. The space where he had stood moments before was occupied by a new figure - one that had Azriel forgetting how to speak. You stood in the doorway, a big smile on your face. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, and there was a long red ribbon tying your hair back, identical to the one that had been wrapped around his gloves. Rhys had gifted Azriel you, served to him with a bow on top.
It was as if the world outside of the two of you faded away. Azriel’s heart began racing in his chest as the two of you locked eyes and if possible, your smile grew even further.
The Illyrian barely heard his brother say “Happy Solstice”, before he had shot out of his seat and crossed the room so quickly that the others might have thought he winnowed. Within a matter of seconds, he had picked you up in a hug, his face lit up in pure joy. His shadows, which had been moving restlessly around all night finally focused, rushing towards you as quickly as their master had.
“Happy Solstice my love,” you whispered into his ear as he spun you around, and you could feel both of your hearts beating wildly in your chests as your bodies pressed against each other. Your mate finally set you down, and took your head in his hands as he examined your face. He was beaming, and took in every one of your features as if he wanted to never forget any detail about you.
“I’ve missed you more than you can even imagine,” he muttered, finally moving to place his lips on yours. The two of you kissed like two people starved, desperate to make up for time lost in the last six weeks. You had gotten so lost in your reunion that you had forgotten you were in a room filled with family until Amren cleared her throat from across the room.
“So, the brooding’s finally over.”
You peeled yourself away from Azriel, slightly embarrassed, though happier than ever to finally be with your mate once again. Surely enough, the male who usually wore a stoic face like a uniform couldn’t stop looking as if his whole world revolved around you.
“I wasn’t brooding,” he tried to defend himself, though his words contradicted his actions, given that he couldn’t peel his gaze from your face.
Nesta scoffed, “You definitely were.”
Rhys laughed. “Cut them some slack, we’d all be the same if separated from our mates.”
You and Azriel couldn’t even be bothered to nod your agreement as he took your hand and guided you back to where he had been seated. You pressed up against his side, looking at the box of gloves that were now on the floor.
“Nice gloves,” you commented, your head going to rest on Azriel’s shoulder as you took everyone in.
“I can’t tell if this means we’ll still be seeing Rhys in a tutu,” Cassian commented, eyes drifting down to the gloves again.
Your face scrunched up in confusion, having missed that earlier part of the conversation. “A tutu?”
“The gift Rhys was talking about was his wife, not the gloves, idiot,” Mor quipped, “Unless Az really can think of anything he would have wanted more.”
Azriel couldn’t deny it - Rhys was spot on. He had gotten him the one thing he wanted and nothing would beat having the one he loved in his arms after being away for so long. Although… “I can think of one thing.”
Rhys’ eyebrows shot up, and you looked towards your husband, mildly offended that he would suggest that there was something he wanted more than you. “You can?”
“Well, for her to have not left in the first place.”
You rolled your eyes, and Rhys scoffed, leaning back in his chair.
“That’s a technicality and you know it. Given the situation you were in, I got you the best possible gift.” Rhys disputed, crossing his arms with an eye roll.
Azriel smirked at his brother before placing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah. Unfortunately we’re getting no ballerina Rhys this year.”
For the rest of the evening, you and Azriel were in pure bliss. As your family opened gifts, you and Azriel shared stolen kisses, your hearts alight with joy. Laughter rang out all night, as you indulged in the wine and cracked jokes with your loved ones.
During dinner you stuffed yourself with delicacies, reveling in the family mealtime that you had yearned for every night. You shared stories of what your life had been like on the Continent for the last month, and your family caught you up on all that you had missed.
You and Azriel couldn’t keep your hands off of each other; the spymaster kept one hand on your thigh at all times, and your hand constantly rested on top of his. When either of you needed the spare hand to eat, Azriel’s shadows slithered around your ankles, unwilling to let you go. The others poked fun at it, but they saw how happy the both of you were, and were finally happy to see you back at home.
“We finally conquered Az’s winning streak at the snowball fight this year,” Cassian announced to you as he took a bite of a Feyre's birthday cake, “I took home the victory at last.”
Azriel shook his head as he took a sip of his wine. “I demand a rematch. You only won because I wasn’t in the right state of mind. Now I could kick your ass.”
“So you admit, you were brooding?” Rhys piped up, a taunting gaze shot towards Azriel, which caused you to laugh. “I will admit, it didn’t feel like a fair competition. I’m up for a rematch tomorrow morning.”
“And we’re just nullifying my win? How is that fair?” Cassian complained.
“If you really thought you could win, you should be able to do it even when Azriel isn’t at a disadvantage,” you teased, to which Azriel smiled proudly, bringing your hand to his mouth to place a kiss atop your knuckles.
“Fine, I’ll show you that I can win tomorrow as well,” the general complied, turning his gaze to you, “But Azriel will be at a disadvantage tomorrow as well with how much you’ll wear him out tonight- ow!”
Before Cassian could finish his sentence, Azriel had dealt a swift kick to his brother’s shins under the table, earning small chuckles around the table.
“There’s no chance anyone’s beating me tomorrow. None.” Azriel stated, eyes staring into your own, blazing with a confidence you very rarely saw from the male.
Surely enough, as the snowball fight ended the next morning, the three brothers entered the cabin to greet the girls, who had opted to lounge there for the day. Rhys couldn’t hide the laughter on his face, while Cassian dragged his feet as he walked towards the birchin, pout clear for all to see. Azriel walked in last, a smug smile on his face.
The spymaster reclaimed his winning streak, because when he looked at the cabin and saw you peering out, eyes hopeful and encouraging as you sipped your mug of hot chocolate, there was nothing that could stand in his way. After six long weeks he had you home, and with you by his side, he finally felt the solstice spirit. He was complete at last.
Summary: Rhysand is distracted by his newly found mate when she decides to sit in his lap during a meeting with Azriel and Cassian.
Warnings: smut, p in v, oral (female), unprotected sex (wrap it kids), dirty talk.
Authors note: I’m back… again. So sorry, I have been unpacking and back to my summer job but I am editing stories still. Also I don’t think if people read this all but I am starting to think to do different stories of characters from different shows and such, like I am some about Andrew ‘Pope’ Cody (Shawn Hatosy🤭) and such. Just lmk if yall would like to see more! But as always hope yall enjoy🫶🏻!
Main Masterlist:
𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐 ⋆ 𖤐
The study is quiet save for the low murmur of voices and the scratch of a pen against paper.
Rhysand stands behind his desk, one hand braced against the dark wood as he listens to Cassian ramble about Illyrian training camps for what feels like the tenth hour in a row.
Azriel leans against the bookshelf nearby, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders while he flips through reports.
And Rhys... Rhys is trying very hard to focus.
Truly.
He stands behind his desk with all the effortless authority expected of the High Lord of the Night Court—shoulders relaxed, expression composed, violet eyes sharp as Cassian drones on about patrol routes and Illyrian camp disputes.
On the surface, he looks perfectly in control.
But beneath it?
He's unraveling.
Because the mating bond hums constantly at the back of his mind, warm and alive and impossible to ignore. Every emotion you feel brushes against him in soft waves, every distant thought tugging at his attention like invisible fingers beneath his skin.
And after only two days—two miserable, interrupted days—of being allowed to have you entirely to himself before duty dragged him away again, his self-control is hanging by a thread.
The scent of you still lingers on him.
On his clothes.
In his sheets.
On every inch of his skin.
Cassian keeps talking, Azriel occasionally adding something low and practical to the conversation, but Rhys hears barely half of it. His pen taps once against the desk as he forces himself to focus on the reports scattered before him instead of the empty doorway across the room.
Because if he lets himself think too hard about you, about the way you looked beneath him.
The soft sounds you made when he kissed down your throat.
The feeling of your hands in his hair while you whispered his name like a prayer—
He is absolutely not surviving this meeting.
So he focuses.
Or attempts to.
Right up until the doors open.
But the mating bond hums warm and alive in his chest, distracting in the most unbearable way imaginable.
Two days.
Two miserable, pathetic days.
That was all the time the Mother had apparently deemed appropriate for him to spend with his newly discovered mate before the responsibilities of being High Lord came crashing back down onto his shoulders.
Two days before meetings.
Before stacks of reports began appearing across his desk again like a personal punishment from the Cauldron itself.
Before politics and court tensions and trade disputes demanded his attention from sunrise to well past midnight.
Before Cassian resumed stomping through his study at all hours, loudly complaining about Illyrian commanders, training budgets, and "idiotic warriors with the survival instincts of drunk goats."
Two days.
That was all Rhysand had been given with his mate before the world came crashing back in.
And he is handling it very poorly.
A fresh report lands onto the growing pile at the edge of his desk, and Rhys signs it with visible irritation, the elegant scratch of his pen just slightly too sharp against the parchment.
Cassian keeps talking.
Something about the northern camps.
Or maybe the eastern ones.
Rhys honestly has no idea anymore.
Because every few minutes, his mind drifts helplessly back to you.
To waking up tangled in soft sheets and warm skin.
To your sleepy smile against his throat.
To the feeling of your fingers tracing along his wings while the bond between you glowed so brightly it nearly drowned him in it.
It's maddening.
He's one of the most powerful males in Prythian.
A High Lord.
Ancient. Feared. Respected.
And yet the mere thought of his mate is enough to make him stare blankly at a report for three straight minutes without reading a single word.
Cassian notices immediately, unfortunately.
"You haven't heard a damn thing I've said, have you?"
Rhys signs another document with unnecessary force. "I heard enough."
"You heard nothing."
"I heard you whining."
"It's called military strategy."
"It's called complaining with maps."
Azriel snorts softly from where he stands near the bookshelf.
Cassian glares at both of them. "You're impossible."
Rhys leans back slightly in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as exhaustion and frustration pull at the edges of his composure.
Because the truth is simple:
He does not want to be here.
He wants to be upstairs with you curled against his chest while the rest of Prythian figures itself out without him for a few more days.
"You're glaring at the paper like it insulted your bloodline," Cassian notes lazily.
"It did," Rhys replies flatly.
Azriel snorts quietly, shadows flickering once around his shoulders in silent amusement at whatever insult Cassian is currently muttering under his breath.
Rhys barely notices.
He's halfway through signing another report, attention split between the parchment in front of him and the constant ache of the mating bond pulling at his chest, when—
The doors open with a quiet creak, the sound barely cutting through the low hum of the study, soft enough that it shouldn't have drawn anyone's attention at all.
But Rhys looks up instantly anyway, his focus snapping toward the doorway with a speed that has nothing to do with thought and everything to do with something deeper—something wired into him now in a way he's still not entirely used to.
The pull of the mating bond, steady and insistent beneath his ribs, drags his attention there before he even consciously decides to move.
And the moment he sees you standing in the doorway, everything in him shifts.
The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders from hours of meetings starts to ease without permission, his expression softening in a way that would scandalize half of Prythian if they ever saw it.
The careful, controlled edges he wears like armor fall away piece by piece, replaced by something unguarded and wholly focused on you.
It isn't just recognition—it's relief, it's warmth, it's the simple, undeniable fact that you're there and suddenly nothing else in the room matters nearly as much as that.
The tension sitting heavily across his shoulders eases first.
Then the crease between his brows disappears.
The cold, carefully controlled mask he wears through meetings and politics and endless responsibilities melts away so quickly it would be almost shocking to anyone who didn't know him.
Cassian notices immediately.
Azriel does too.
Because one second Rhys looks like the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court—
And the next he simply looks like a male hopelessly in love.
There you are.
His mate.
His beautiful, devastating mate.
Framed by the doorway beneath the soft glow of starlight spilling through the study windows, looking entirely unaware of the effect you have on him.
Or perhaps fully aware.
With you, Rhys is never completely certain anymore.
The bond between you brightens instantly the moment your eyes meet his, warm and golden and alive enough that he feels it clear down to his bones.
Gods.
He missed you.
It's ridiculous considering he saw you barely an hour ago, but after only two days together before duty tore him away again, every moment apart feels wrong in a way he still hasn't adjusted to.
His mouth curves before he can stop it. Not the arrogant smirk he gives the rest of the world.
Not the sharp grin that usually accompanies his teasing. No, this smile is softer. It's warmer and entirely yours.
And for a brief moment, Rhys forgets completely that Cassian and Azriel are even in the room.
Down the bond, his voice slips smooth as silk into your mind.
'Go in our bedroom for me, sweet girl.'
Heat flashes through the bond immediately—amusement, affection, something teasing—and Rhys narrows his eyes slightly.
You ignore him.
Completely.
Cassian notices first, because of course he does.
"Oh, that's dangerous," he mutters under his breath.
You walk toward Azriel instead, holding out a folder. "You asked for these earlier."
Azriel reaches for it with a quiet, "Thank you."
His fingers brush yours for half a second as Azriel takes the folder from your hands—an entirely accidental, insignificant touch that means absolutely nothing.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, Rhysand sees it.
And his reaction is immediate.
The warmth leaves his expression in an instant, violet eyes narrowing with terrifying focus as his stare locks onto Azriel like he's personally committed treason against the Night Court.
Pure territorial instinct flashes across Rhys's face before he can stop it, the possessive edge of the mating bond rearing its head so fast it's almost impressive.
Azriel freezes mid-motion, shadows going still around him as realization dawns.
Cassian watches the entire thing happen from across the room.
Then outright chokes on his own laugh.
Not a normal laugh either—a startled, wheezing sound of disbelief as he stares between them.
"Rhys," Cassian says carefully, already grinning, "you know Az isn't trying to steal your mate because she handed him paperwork, right?"
Azriel slowly lifts one brow, still holding the folder while Rhys continues glaring at him like he's debating how difficult it would be to bury a Spymaster's body.
And the worst part?
Rhys knows he's being unreasonable.
Knows it.
But the mating bond thrums hot and possessive through his chest anyway, especially when you remain entirely oblivious to the silent male drama unfolding around you.
Rhys watches you round the desk toward him, and his heartbeat immediately picks up.
Finally.
Maybe you listened after all. Maybe you're going to kiss him. Maybe you're going to whisper something filthy down the bond just to torture him in front of his brothers—
But no.
Instead, you simply settle yourself into his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Rhysand stops functioning the second you settle into his lap. Not metaphorically, not briefly—actually stops.
His entire body goes rigid beneath yours, every thought in his head scattering so fast it's almost embarrassing.
The pen in his hand stills against the parchment mid-signature while his breath catches hard in his chest, violet eyes widening just slightly as he stares up at you in complete disbelief.
One moment he's the composed High Lord of the Night Court discussing military reports and politics, and the next his mind has gone utterly, catastrophically blank because his mate just climbed into his lap in the middle of an Inner Circle meeting like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Heat floods up his neck almost instantly, his heartbeat turning uneven as the scent of you surrounds him completely, warm and familiar and impossible to think through.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that you look entirely comfortable there, tucked against him without a hint of hesitation, while Rhys sits frozen beneath you trying and failing to remember how to form a single coherent thought.
You curl comfortably against his chest, completely content, one arm sliding loosely around his shoulders as you glance at the reports scattered across the desk.
"What were you talking about?"
Silence falls over the study so abruptly it's almost deafening.
One second Cassian is mid-sip from the glass in his hand, smirking like usual, and the next he slowly lowers the drink while staring at Rhys with open disbelief.
Across the room, Azriel immediately looks down at the floor, shadows twitching violently around him as if even they are struggling not to react.
Because sitting behind that desk is not the cold, untouchable High Lord the rest of Prythian fears.
Not the ancient, devastatingly powerful male capable of bringing entire courts to their knees.
No—Rhysand is blushing. Brightly.
Color spreads unmistakably across his cheeks and down the elegant line of his neck while his hands remain frozen at your waist, violet eyes locked helplessly on you like he's forgotten how breathing works.
And somehow, the sight of the terrifying High Lord of the Night Court completely short-circuiting because his mate climbed into his lap is so absurd that neither Cassian nor Azriel can process it for a solid five seconds.
The color spreads from the tips of his ears down his neck while he stares at you like you personally descended from the stars to ruin him.
"My love," he says weakly.
You blink innocently. "Yes?"
Cassian loses it.
A sharp bark of laughter explodes out of him as he doubles over in his chair.
Rhys glares at him, but it lacks any real threat because one of your hands has started absentmindedly playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
Mother save him.
His wings twitch violently behind the chair.
Azriel finally looks up, mouth suspiciously tight like he's suppressing a smile.
"You were saying something about the northern camps," Azriel prompts.
Rhys stares at him.
Northern camps?
What in hell is a northern camp?
Your lips twitch against his jaw like you know exactly what you're doing to him.
Down the bond comes your soft, smug amusement.
'You told me to go in the bedroom. You never said I couldn't wait here.'
Rhys nearly inhales his own tongue.
Cassian groans loudly. "Please stop flirting through the bond during meetings."
"We aren't," Rhys snaps automatically.
"You're blushing so hard your ears match the Sidra at sunset," Cassian replies.
Rhys opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Because you shift slightly in his lap to get comfortable, and every coherent thought leaves his body immediately.
"You know," Cassian says thoughtfully, "for a male who only got two days of mating frenzy, you're surprisingly easy to break."
Rhys finally drags his eyes from you long enough to glare murder at him.
"Leave," he says flatly.
Cassian grins. "No."
You look up at Rhys sweetly. "Am I distracting you?"
The genuine confusion in your voice makes it worse.
So much worse.
Rhys stares at his mate sitting innocently in his lap while his brothers watch him unravel in real time.
Then he sighs deeply, wrapping both arms around your waist and pulling you tighter against his chest.
"Meeting adjourned."
Cassian is still laughing when he rises from his chair.
Actually laughing.
The kind that makes him wipe at his eyes as he points at Rhys like he's just witnessed something historic.
"Oh, this is priceless."
"Get out," Rhys growls.
But there's no bite behind it now—not when you're curled against him, not when one of your hands is lazily tracing circles against the back of his neck.
Azriel quietly gathers the reports from the desk, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth gives him away entirely.
"You're never going to recover his reputation after this," Cassian says to you.
You blink up innocently from Rhys's lap. "I don't know what you mean."
Cassian snorts.
Rhys just narrows his eyes, though the effect is ruined completely by the pink still dusting his cheeks.
"Leave," Rhys repeats, more tired this time.
Azriel finally takes pity on him.
He moves toward the door, shadows swirling with obvious amusement. Cassian follows beside him, still grinning like a menace.
"You know," Cassian says as he reaches the doorway, "I always wondered what would finally humble the mighty High Lord of the Night Court."
Rhys flips him off without hesitation, violet eyes narrowing with all the exhausted irritation of a male who knows he's being mocked mercilessly and deserves every second of it.
Cassian only grins wider.
The sound of his laughter fills the study—loud, shameless, echoing off the dark stone walls as he backs toward the doorway with Azriel beside him.
Even Azriel looks dangerously close to smiling now, shadows curling restlessly around his shoulders like they, too, are entertained by the sight of the High Lord of the Night Court blushing over his mate sitting in his lap.
"You're finished," Cassian says with the confidence of someone who knows he's just gained years' worth of blackmail material. "Completely finished."
Rhys opens his mouth, undoubtedly to threaten him, but your fingers drift lightly through the hair at the nape of his neck at the exact wrong moment.
His entire train of thought vanishes instantly.
But Cassian notices immediately. The Illyrian lets out another victorious bark of laughter while Azriel lowers his head slightly, shoulders tightening once in what looks suspiciously like suppressed amusement.
Traitors. Both of them.
Then Cassian reaches for the door handle, still shaking his head in disbelief. "The mighty Rhysand," he mutters dramatically. "Brought down by a female in his lap."
"Get out," Rhys growls, though the command has lost nearly all its power beneath the warmth spreading up his throat.
Cassian salutes mockingly.
Azriel finally pulls the door open.
Cool air from the corridor slips briefly into the room as the two males step out, both still grinning like they've just witnessed the downfall of a kingdom instead of their High Lord completely melting beneath his mate's attention.
Then the heavy doors swing shut behind them with a soft click.
And silence settles over the study at last. For approximately two seconds...
Because the moment the latch clicks into place, you turn in Rhys's lap and press your mouth softly against the side of his throat.
Rhys freezes.
A shudder rolls through him instantly.
"Sweetheart," he breathes.
You kiss lower, slow and absentminded, like you aren't fully aware of the effect you're having on him.
Which is a lie.
A complete lie.
He knows it from the way amusement flickers teasingly down the bond.
Rhys's hands tighten instinctively around your waist.
Outside the study, Cassian's loud voice echoes faintly through the corridor.
"Oh, they're absolutely making out already."
Azriel actually laughs quietly.
Rhys closes his eyes in suffering while you hide your smile against his neck.
"They can hear us," he mutters.
"And?"
Gods.
You press another kiss just beneath his jaw, and Rhys's head tips back against the chair before he can stop himself.
The High Lord of the Night Court—feared across Prythian—reduced to helpless silence because his mate decided to sit in his lap and kiss his neck during a meeting.
Cassian is never going to let him live this down.
The moment your lips meet his, Rhys groans into the kiss—low and desperate, like he's been holding himself back for far too long. His tongue slides against yours, tasting you, claiming you, as his hands grip your hips and lift you effortlessly off his lap.
You gasp against his mouth as he sets you on the edge of the desk. Papers scatter. A glass of wine tips and spills, but neither of you care. His palms sweep across the surface, shoving everything aside until there's nothing left but you, laid out for him like an offering.
He doesn't break the kiss. Not when his fingers find the buttons of your shirt. Not when he rips them apart with an impatient growl, sending tiny buttons skittering across the floor. The fabric falls open, and he pulls back just long enough to look at you—breasts bared, nipples already peaked from the cool air, chest rising and falling with quickened breaths.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, voice rough.
Then his mouth is on your stomach. Hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your sternum, over your ribs, tasting every inch of skin. When his lips close around your nipple, you arch into him with a sharp moan, fingers threading into his dark hair and pulling.
He sucks hard, tongue flicking across the sensitive peak, and the vibration of his answering groan sends heat pooling between your thighs. His hips grind against the edge of the desk, and you feel exactly how much he wants you—hard and ready, straining against his trousers.
You reach for his waistband, fumbling with the buttons.
He chuckles against your skin, warm and breathless. The sound vibrates through your core.
"Impatient, aren't you?"
But he doesn't stop you. Instead, he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and pulls them down your legs in one smooth motion, along with your underwear. You're bare beneath him now, exposed and wanting, spread out on his desk like a feast.
And then he drops to his knees.
The sight steals the breath from your lungs.
The High Lord of the Night Court. Most powerful High Lord in Prythian. On his knees. For you.
His violet eyes meet yours, dark and blazing with hunger, as he spreads your legs wide and settles between them.
"Watch me," he commands.
And you do.
You watch as he lowers his head. As his tongue drags slowly, deliberately, through your slick folds. The first taste draws a groan from deep in his chest, and his eyes flutter shut like he's savoring something exquisite.
Your head falls back, a broken moan spilling from your lips. Your hands fist in his hair as his tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, tormenting. He licks into you like he's starving, like he's been waiting his entire existence for this moment.
"Rhys—" His name is a whine on your lips.
He hums against you, and the vibration makes your hips buck.
"Say it again," he murmurs against your flesh, not pausing.
"Rhysand—please—"
He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth, and your vision whites out for a moment.
His tongue works you relentlessly, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks, reading your body like he's memorized every reaction. And he has.
He knows exactly when to speed up, when to slow down, when to press his tongue flat and let you grind against his face.
The sounds you're making are shameless. Whines and moans and half-formed pleas that fill the study. His fingers dig into your thighs, holding you open, keeping you steady as he drives you higher and higher.
"Come for me," he says against you, the words barely coherent. "Come on my tongue, sweetheart. Let me taste you."
That's all it takes.
You shatter with a cry, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash through you. He doesn't stop. He laps at you through every pulse, drawing it out, groaning against your cunt like your release is his greatest achievement.
When you finally stop trembling, he rises—slowly, deliberately. His chin glistens. His lips are swollen, wet. His eyes are nearly black with desire.
He kisses you, and you taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good girl," he breathes against your lips. "Such a good mate for me."
Before you can catch your breath, he's pulling his pants down. His cock springs free, thick and hard, and he wraps a hand around himself, pumping slowly as he meets your gaze.
"Ready for me?"
You nod, still breathless.
He lines himself up and pushes inside you in one smooth, devastating thrust.
The moan that tears from both of you fills the room.
He bottoms out and stills, letting you adjust. His forehead presses against yours, breath ragged.
"Fuck," he whispers. "You feel—gods, you feel incredible."
You clench around him deliberately, and his hips jerk.
"My little minx." Then he starts to move.
Slow at first—long, deep strokes that hit exactly where you need them. His rhythm is punishing in its gentleness, each thrust grinding against your clit, building that coil in your belly again.
"You're being so good," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. "Taking me so well. My perfect mate."
But when you start to grind against him, meeting his thrusts with increasing desperation, his tone shifts.
"Ah, ah," he chides, pulling back just enough to look at you. "Someone's eager. Grinding against me like an animal in heat."
Heat floods your cheeks, but you don't stop.
"Please," you whimper. "Rhys—please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me harder."
His eyes flash.
He gives you exactly what you want.
His pace turns brutal. The desk creaks beneath you, papers long forgotten, as he pounds into you with relentless intensity. Each thrust drives you higher, and you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he fucks you toward another peak.
"That's it," he growls. But when the wave crests and you tighten around him, crying out his name.
He pulls out.
The sudden emptiness makes you sob in frustration. "Rhysand!"
He shakes his head, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Bad girl. You came without permission."
Before you can protest, he grabs your hips and flips you over. Your chest presses against the cool wood of the desk, ass in the air, completely exposed. His hand comes down on one cheek with a sharp crack.
You yelp.
"That's what happens to bad girls," he says, voice low and dangerous.
He spanks you again, and the sting radiates through your skin, mixing pleasure with pain.
"Count."
"Two," you gasp.
Another slap.
"Three."
Your whine is pathetic, desperate.
He runs his palm over the heated skin, soothing the burn.
"You want my cum, bad girl?"
"Yes—please—I'll be good—"
"I know you will."
He lines himself up again and slams into you from behind. The new angle is deeper, harder, and you moan into the desk, fingers scrambling for purchase on the smooth surface.
His hand tangles in your hair, pulling your head back.
"You don't come until I say so," he pants, fucking into you with deep, punishing strokes. "Understand?"
"Yes—yes, Rhys—"
"Good girl."
He sets a brutal pace, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. His breathing is ragged, his composure cracking with each thrust.
"I'm close," he admits, voice strained. "Where do you want it?"
"In me—please—"
"Beg for it."
"Please, Rhysand," you whimper, voice breaking. "Please come inside me. I need to feel you—I need—"
He groans, and you feel him thicken, pulse.
"Come with me," he commands. "Now."
The permission is all you need. Your release crashes into you, and as your walls clench around him, he follows—hot and deep, filling you as he groans your name like a prayer.
You collapse together, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck.
For a long moment, there's only the sound of your mingled breathing.
Then he kisses your shoulder.
"My good girl," he murmurs. "Even when you're bad."
Outside, distant laughter echoes from the corridor. Cassian's voice carries through the stone walls, "told you. Absolutely making out."
And Azriel's quiet reply, “that’s not making out, dipshit.”
🫶🏻summary: azriel panics because a new chapter begins.
author’s note: i just imagine azriel absolutely shocked by the news when he’s told he’ll be a father. i also know he’ll do everything in his power to provide all the love, safety, support and care for his child. 🩷
one shot
Azriel stood frozen, like a statue. He couldn't hear the words stumbling out of your mouth anymore, but he watched as you paced back and forth—from the door to the balcony and back again—nervous out of your mind.
But Azriel? Oh, he was panicking.
His shadows weren’t nearly as sluggish as he was. They kept roaming back and forth between the two of you, brushing soft tendrils delicately across your cheeks, your wrists, your ankles, and then, tentatively, your stomach.
"Baby."
"Baby."
"Baby," they kept repeating back to him, but the poor man remained as frozen as the Winter Court.
"Say something, godsdamn it!" You came to a sudden stop, looking at your mate with widened, watery, panicked eyes. "Are you upset? Do you not want it? Or... do you want it, but not with me? Oh gods, you look pale. White as a ghost. Fuck, I shouldn't have said anything, but Madja and Feyre both said you'd figure it out sooner or later anyway, and I didn't want you to be upset because I kept it from you, so I thought I should just tell you..."
You kept rambling, the words blurring into gibberish because you were completely, utterly terrified. And Azriel just stood there—his hands and jaw slack, pupils blown wide, doing nothing but staring.
Because this dream was something deeply buried inside his chest. It was a dream he had only ever just dared to imagine himself fulfilling.
And now, panic gripped him.
What if he wasn't capable of being a father? He didn't even know what a good father was supposed to look like. What if the child grew up hating him? What if they suffered just for being the child of a bastard, brute Illyrian?
What if—
"Az?" Your voice cut through the endless spiral of his dark, doubting thoughts.
You stood across from him, looking so small, with tears glistening in your eyes.
Oh gods, what have I done?, he thought, his heart squeezing painfully inside his chest.
"Do you not want it?" you asked, your voice small and painfully uncertain.
"No!" he said, but he immediately winced as your face crumpled. "I—I mean… I'm not… I'm not mad about it. At all."
Mother above, he was sweating.
You stood still, anxiously wringing your fingers. "But?" you asked, your voice broken and wobbling.
Azriel remained quiet as he stepped closer to you. He genuinely expected you to step out of his way—to push him away.
But you didn't. You waited for him, waiting for his touch.
"I'm happy because it happened with you," he murmured, tentatively brushing a knuckle over your wet cheek. You bit your lip, but your chin still quivered.
Azriel's heart was beating rapidly—so loud you could hear it—but down the bond, you could feel his unmistakable fear.
His voice was quiet as he spoke. "I don't know how to fulfill the role of a good father."
Your face softened.
You knew all about the painful, terror-filled childhood in which your mate had grown up. You knew that even after all this time, he still beat himself up, still carrying the deep-seated belief that he wasn't deserving of unconditional love. He was terrified that somewhere along the line, that he would mess up and lose you for good. For so long, he had been convinced that you deserved someone else—someone who wasn’t as deeply broken as he was.
It had taken time, but you had never turned your back on him. You had kept showing him, day after day, just how much you loved him. You had proven to him that he was deserving of goodness, of unconditional love, and of protection.
"Az," you whispered softly, gently brushing his hair away from his beautiful eyes to force him to look at you. "I love you."
He sucked in a sharp breath.
"What your father was," you said firmly, "doesn't mean you are him."
His dark eyes bored into yours, his ragged breath fanning over your tear-soaked face. His massive wings, along with his arms, were still heavy and sluggish for someone so feared all across Prythian.
"What if I fuck up?" he whispered carefully, the vulnerability in his voice nearly breaking your heart.
"We’re first-time parents," you said softly. You reached up, gently cupping his face and brushing your palm against his cheek. He instantly leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a brief second as if your hand was his only anchor. "We’re both going to fuck up sometimes, Az. That's just a part of it."
Azriel weakly shakes his head. "No, I mean… what if they’ll hate me?"
A small, tender smile tugged at your lips, and you let out a soft wet laugh, leaning forward to press your forehead against his. "They won't. Well… maybe when they’re teenagers and want to rebel. But never for real."
He breathed out a shaky sigh, his large hands finally moving to rest gently on your hips, anchoring you to him. "How are you so calm?"
"Because," you murmured, sliding your fingers through the dark strands of his hair, "I know our baby is going to grow up in a house completely overflowing with love. I know his father might be the Shadowsinger—feared across all of Prythian—but to our little one, he’ll just be the center of the world. He’s going to look at you and want to be exactly like his dad."
A spark of something warm and bright lit up his eyes, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. "His dad..." He paused, swallowing hard as a soft, rare smile finally broke through his rugged features. "You kept saying 'he.' You think it's a boy?"
You bit your lip, but a soft giggle escaped, suddenly shy as you looked up at him, nodding as you slid your arms around his neck to pull him closer. "I had a dream that you were holding a little winged babe, his little face calm as he snoozed on your chest,” Azriel’s eyes widen slightly, his mouth falling open.
“So, I hope it’s a boy. A sweet little boy who looks just like you,” you kiss him softly. “You're going to show him exactly how beautiful it is to be loved, Az. I know it. You deserve it.”
You deserve it.
The words echoed deeply inside Azriel’s chest. As he looked down at you—at your beautiful, radiant smile, the happy tears now glistening in your eyes, and the way your entire face lit up with an ethereal warmth—he couldn't help but believe it. He believed, that the Mother truly wanted him to be happy. That you, his mate, wanted nothing more than to give him a joyful life.
So, he smiled.
It was a wide, breathtaking smile that bloomed across his face before breaking into a soft, rare laugh. The mating bond between you vibrated violently, flooded with pure love and dizzying excitement.
Azriel gently tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, cradling your face inside his large, scarred palms.
Hands that you loved so deeply. Hands that brought an instant wave of comfort, making you feel entirely protected, cherished, and safe.
"You're glowing," he murmured, his voice thick with awe as he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the entire world.
But now it’s two.
"Because you make me happy," you whispered back, leaning into his touch. "Because I'm your mate. I'm your wife."
"And the mother of my child," he added, the words sounding sacred on his lips. His thumbs gently stroked your cheekbones, wiping away the remnants of your tears.
"You're going to be a father, Az," you laughed, the sound watery but bursting with happiness. You slid your hands up to rest over his broad chest, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms. "Is it too early to start picking out baby names?"
Azriel let out another laugh, the sound rich and low in his chest.
He didn't answer with words. Instead, he wrapped his arms securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest and burying his face into the crook of your neck. His large wings folded entirely around the two of you, shielding you both from the rest of the world like a cocoon.
As he held you there in the quiet safety of your room, one of his large hands slowly moved down, sliding away from your waist to rest incredibly gentle over your still-flat stomach. He let out a long, contented sigh against your skin, holding you close as if he would never, ever let go.
Summary: You and Cassian are officially mated. You both know what happens now: the mating frenzy.
Warnings: smut, language, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex but mention of contraceptive, fingering, oral (f receiving), cockwarming while both asleep (does it count as somnophilia? Idk), mention of spanking
Word count: 8.2k
A/N: took me way too long to post this one, sorry about that. But I think it's funny my second longest fic it's basically just smut lol
Part 1 (but it can totally be read on its own)
Main masterlist | Cassian masterlist | AO3
You hadn’t really known what to expect when the bond was accepted. Everyone always talked about the mating frenzy, but no one ever explained how it began. Would the need and desire surge the moment you offered your mate food? Would it take a few minutes? Or would it build slowly, like a wave gathering until it became a tsunami? Maybe it differed from couple to couple, maybe that was why no one ever talked about it.
So you and Cassian had celebrated your mating ceremony without you offering him food. You danced and dined and laughed, spending the afternoon with your friends and family. But the celebration felt more like a prelude for what was coming than a commemoration of what had already happened.
Because even though Cassian had eaten, it wasn't food you had offered. Not yet.
You waited until the sun began to sink behind the horizon, painting the sky in warm shades of orange and pink. You said your goodbyes, wishing everyone goodnight, not knowing when you'd see them again.
Would the mating frenzy last a couple of weeks? A month? Longer? You had once heard of a couple who disappeared for four months. It was one more thing you couldn't predict.
Cassian had scooped you up into his arms, spread his wings and soared into the twilight-kissed sky.
While you had organized most of the ceremony, he had been busy finding the perfect place for you to stay for however long the frenzy lasted. A place just for the two of you, far from other houses and any kind of interruptions.
“So they won't hear us,” he'd said with a smug grin. “I bet we'll be even louder than usual.”
But he had kept the location a surprise, so you had no idea where he was taking you until he landed in front of a small cabin and gently set you down.
You gripped his arm to steady yourself as your feet touched the ground, your eyes already darting around to take in your surroundings.
You were in the woods outside Velaris, closer to the mountains than the sea, in a peaceful spot where only a distant owl and the whisper of the wind could be heard. Ivy crept along the cabin’s wall, curling across rough stone and weathered wood alike, and you brushed your fingers along the dark green leaves as Cassian unlocked the front door and held it open for you.
When you stepped inside, the faelights flickered to life, and your eyes widened in surprise. The place was small, as you had expected, but it had everything you could need and it was beautifully furnished. The main room combined the kitchen and the living area, and through the open doors you could glimpse the bathroom and bedroom. Everything looked cozy and warm, exactly what you would picture when stepping into a cabin in the woods.
“Cass, this is wonderful,” you marveled, walking into the bedroom to survey the space. The bed was large enough to fit his wings, and it looked so comfortable and inviting, which was more than perfect, since you planned on spending most of your time there.
Cassian came up behind you, a hand settling on your waist. “You like it?”
“Like it?” you repeated, turning your head enough to look at him. “I love it!”
He smiled. “Good. Because it’s yours.”
You tilted your head, frowning. “Mine?”
“Yes, yours.”
Before you could ask for an explanation, he took your hand and led you back to the living area. He stopped in front of the oak dining table in the corner, standing behind you with his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze over the place.
“I didn’t rent the cabin, sweetheart,” he murmured in your ear. “I bought it. As a mating present for you.”
“Cass…” you began, your heart swelling. “We agreed we wouldn’t buy each other anything.”
When you tried to turn to face him, his grip tightened on your shoulders. His breath warmed your neck before he pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder.
“Then consider it a gift for both of us.” You could hear the smile in his voice, feel it against your skin. “A place for us to escape to whenever we want to be alone.”
Leaning back against him, you blinked away the tears stinging at the corner of your eyes.
A cabin. He had gotten you a cabin, even though you’d agreed not to exchange gifts, that the presents from your friends and family and the promise of eternity together were enough. Yet he had bought you a whole house so you could retreat from the chaos of your lives whenever you wished.
“I… I don't know what to say,” you murmured, eyes darting around the room, still trying to process the news. It was yours—the maple and oak furniture, the shelves waiting to be filled, the orange pillows on the couch. They were all yours.
Cassian's hands slid from your shoulders to your waist, his arms wrapping around you to pull you against his chest. “You don't have to say anything.”
“I need to thank you properly,” you said. “And I need to offer you food.”
He hummed against your ear, the sound reverberating deep in your bones. “And once you do, we're going to inaugurate this place by fucking on every surface,” he murmured. “I'll take you on the couch. And the armchair.” He gently turned you toward the kitchen. “That table too.”
Each whispered word sent a shiver down your spine, setting your body aflame.
“In the bathtub while we wash up.” His lips brushed your neck, his hands gliding up your chest, stopping just beneath your breasts. “On the bed, of course. Over and over again.” His mouth found the soft spot below your ear. “Against the wall, too, if you want.”
You shivered against him. This time, when you tried to turn in his arms, he let you. Your eyes met, and you offered him an amused smile.
“You know,” you said softly, fingers grazing his jaw, “I was planning to cook you something nice. But if you keep talking like that, I might not have the patience.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “That’s alright.” He kissed your fingertips when they brushed his lips. “I might have eaten a bit too much at the ceremony. If I eat any more, I’ll probably be too drowsy to do anything. Including fucking you.”
You stared at him for a moment, then burst into laughter. “So you gift me a cabin and I don’t even get to cook you a good meal to accept the bond? Got it.”
The truth was, you understood. You just liked to tease him, but you understood. You’d eaten plenty yourself, and if not for the excitement thrumming through your veins, you probably would have collapsed on the bed already, ready to sleep late into the morning.
Stepping out of his embrace, you turned to the cabinets. “Is there food in here?”
You were moving before Cassian could answer, but he still said, “Yes. And the place is enchanted so the food never goes bad.”
“Fancy,” you murmured as you opened a cabinet. It was stacked with all your favorite snacks. Your lips curved into a smile.
He really had thought of everything.
After carefully selecting one of the cookie jars—apparently the best you could do right now—you pulled out a chocolate chip cookie and walked back to Cassian, who was watching you with a broad smile.
“For you, my love,” you announced, offering it as though it were something sacred.
Cassian mockingly bowed his head as he accepted it. “Thank you, my love.”
He lifted the cookie to his lips, never breaking eye contact as he took a small bite. You arched a brow, and he huffed half a laugh before shoving the rest into his mouth.
For a moment, you just stood there, holding your breath as you stared at each other. But nothing happened. Nothing changed.
Then Cassian swallowed.
You both felt it instantly, eyes widening as the mating bond snapped into place like a lock finally clicking shut. The desire followed a heartbeat later, crashing through you like a tidal wave. You gasped and stumbled back a step, your body trembling as heat consumed you. Cassian’s nostrils flared, and you realized the scents of both your arousals had already filled the room. Just like that. In seconds.
You wanted—needed—to rip the clothes off him, to taste his skin, to feel him inside you. The need settled deep in your bones, making your knees weak and your core ache.
Cassian watched you, his hazel eyes darkened with the same desire you felt burning in your chest. Neither of you spoke as his hands went to the cufflinks of his suit jacket, shrugging it off with quick efficiency.
He always looked good, and you had thought he couldn't possibly look any better than he had in that suit. But now, standing before you in his black slacks and white shirt, he was devastatingly handsome. It took every ounce of control not to pounce on him.
His shirt was unbuttoned by the time he realized you weren't moving. You stood there, tense like a bowstring about to snap, your eyes fixed on his every movement, drinking in every inch of golden skin revealed with each button he undid.
His voice was rough when he spoke. “Are you okay?”
Your gaze dragged slowly from his chest to his face. “Yes,” you breathed. “I just can't take the dress off alone.” When he frowned, you explained, “The laces are fastened on the back.”
“How did you put it on?”
“Mor helped me.”
Cassian nodded once, then stepped closer. You swallowed, anticipation and desire swelling inside you, fingertips itching to touch him. But he simply moved behind you and reached for the first lace of your dress.
You were acutely aware of how close he was. He didn't touch you—he was careful not to brush the bare skin of your back, only pinching the thin strings—but you could feel his breath against the nape of your neck, sense his presence behind you. His scent enveloped you, and you had never shown such restraint as you did now.
The dress fell in a shapeless heap on the floor, pooling around your feet. Cassian’s breath hitched. The sound alone made your thighs clench.
“You’re not wearing a bra,” he whispered, trailing a finger down your spine. The touch was feather-light, barely there, but it was enough to make you tremble.
“It showed through the dress,” you murmured.
Unable to wait any longer, you turned to face him.
Your gaze dragged down his body, taking in the muscles rippling beneath his unbuttoned shirt, the straining bulge in his slacks. You lifted a hand and traced the line of a faint scar just above the waistband of his pants. He shivered but didn’t move.
When your eyes finally met, the fragile control you both had shattered like glass.
Your lips crashed together, and there was nothing sweet in the kiss. It was all hunger, desperation, raw need demanding release. Your fingers tangled in his hair and his hands gripped your thighs, effortlessly lifting you onto the table behind you. You moaned softly when he stepped between your parted legs and his cock pressed against your clothed sex.
His mouth moved down to your neck, but even as you tilted your head, you couldn’t wait anymore. You fumbled with his belt, letting out an excited squeal when you managed to unbuckle it and unbutton his slacks.
Your hand slipped inside, but Cassian tore his mouth from your throat with a low growl. “Now isn’t the time for teasing,” he rasped. “Save that for later.”
You were not going to protest.
His pants were around his ankles in seconds, your panties dragged down your legs and dropped on the floor beside your dress. You spread your thighs, baring your slick cunt to his hungry gaze. His eyes fixed on you, just as yours locked onto his hard cock. Your mouth watered at the sight, and your core clenched around nothing as you stared at the bead of fluid at his tip.
“Cass—”
“I need to fuck you.” He grabbed your hips, pulling you to the edge of the table. “Right now.”
He didn’t wait. He nudged your entrance, then sheathed himself inside you with a single thrust. You both moaned at the delicious, familiar stretch, and you braced yourself against the table. But Cassian didn’t move.
“Cassian,” you snarled. You needed him to move, now more than ever. Your very bones ached for it. “Now isn’t the time for teasing.”
His eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, the hazel nearly swallowed whole. Did you look the same? Hungry, desperate, barely in control? You felt like it.
“I’m not teasing,” he ground out. He was trembling with the effort of holding still. “Just… I don’t know how long I can last.”
Normally, you’d laugh. Reassure him. Maybe crack a joke. But not now.
“You think I care?” Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer as you rolled your hips. His fingers dug into your waist. “Just fuck me.”
With a rumbling growl, Cassian obeyed. He pulled out almost all the way before he slammed back into you, making your eyes roll back as he set a brutal rhythm. Your mouths met again, and though the kiss muffled the moans and grunts, there was no disguising the creak of the table beneath you or the steady slap of bodies colliding.
Your legs hooked around his waist, hands sliding down to grip his ass, trying to pull him closer, deeper even though there was no space left between you. You were already pressed together, and pleasure built quickly, faster than ever. It coiled low in your belly, rising like a tidal wave until your body tensed in his arms.
His grunts grew louder. His fingers bruised your thighs. Cassian broke the kiss, trying to keep pace, but his hips faltered when you began to clench tight around him.
“Fuck…” he breathed. His eyes, darker than you’d ever seen, locked with yours.
That was all it took.
Cassian’s head tilted back,a guttural groan tearing from him as he came, grinding his hips against yours as he spilled deep inside you. You moaned low in your throat, trembling with release, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough to satisfy the bond's demand to consume and be consumed.
“Well, that was…” Cassian let out a breathless chuckle. “Quick.”
“Don’t stop,” you panted, even though he was still slowly moving inside you, still hard. “I need more…”
He didn’t hesitate. He began thrusting again, and you bit your lip at the exquisite drag of his cock against your walls, your combined release making every motion slicker, deeper. You lifted a hand to run a finger down Cassian’s left wing, but he caught your wrist before you could touch him.
“If you so much as brush my wings, I’ll come again right now.” His hands slid up your arms to your shoulders and gently pushed down, hips never losing their rhythm. “Lie back, my love.”
You obeyed, leaning back against the table. As soon as your back hit the wood, Cassian’s hands clamped on your waist. He pulled almost all the way out, until only his tip was still inside you, then slammed back in one brutal thrust. You arched off the table with a strangled moan.
“Cass—” you choked out, but he didn’t give you the chance to finish.
He began pounding into you, hips snapping with purpose and determination. You could feel him deep inside, hitting that hidden, sensitive spot again and again. Your fingers grazed his shoulders, leaving small crescent-shaped indents as you pulled him down to you.
With a low groan, Cassian leaned in. But instead of capturing your lips like you expected, his mouth closed around your breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple. You squirmed, burying your fingers in his dark locks to keep him there. He hummed against your skin, maybe even said something, but you were too lost in pleasure to hear.
His pace slowed while he lavished attention on your tits, switching from one nipple to the other, sucking them into his mouth and gently rolling each between his teeth. Your sighs and moans filled the cabin, and when you couldn’t take it anymore—when Cassian had drawn you to the edge of another climax yet refused to let you fall—you yanked on his hair, forcing him to lift his head.
“Stop teasing me,” you mumbled, half breathless, half annoyed. “I need more than this.”
Cassian smirked, slow and mischievous, like he knew exactly how desperate you were and relished every second of it. But you could see it in his eyes—the strain of resisting the frenzy that urged him to take, take, take.
“As you wish,” he murmured. The restraint in his voice was clear, but you didn’t push him. You didn’t move. You let him move you instead.
His hands gripped the backs of your knees, folding your legs up and spreading them wide. Your gaze dropped from his face to the spot where your bodies were joined, where he began driving into you again, relentless now, and all you could do was watch and squirm and moan.
Cassian was panting, his wings flaring slightly as he loomed over you. His muscles shifted with every thrust, and you clenched around him at the sight of that beautiful, tattooed body. He was yours alone—yours to touch, yours to worship
“Is this what you wanted?” Cassian rumbled. His eyes flicked from where he disappeared inside you to your fluttering lashes and parted lips. “Or do you still need more, sweetheart?”
Your fingers scrambled for purchase, but found only the edge of the table. “No,” you breathed. “Just… don’t stop, please…”
“I’m not stopping,” he growled. You could hear the strain in his voice, see it in the hard set of his jaw. He was close, just like you. Teetering on the edge of a pleasure that spread from your core to the very tips of your fingers and toes.
“C’mon,” Cassian urged, pushing your legs farther apart. You whined softly, heat pooling in your belly. “Come with me, sweetheart. I want us to come together.”
He released one of your legs, but you kept it raised, exactly where he’d put it, too overwhelmed to move. Especially not when his free hand slipped between your thighs and his thumb pressed down on your clit. Not circling, not caressing, just… there. A steady, perfect pressure that made you keen.
“Oh,” you panted. Your breasts bounced with the force of his thrusts as he drove into you harder, deeper, leaving you gasping for air. You were pretty sure the table shifted beneath you. “F-fuck, Cass, I’m—”
A loud moan tore from you, cutting off your words. Cassian had changed his angle, just slightly, but enough that every stroke struck that perfect spot. With his cock hitting it repeatedly and his thumb on your clit, the world vanished in a rush of white-hot ecstasy.
You arched off the table, eyes rolling back as Cassian rocked his hips a few more times before burying himself deep and spilling inside you. Warmth spread low in your belly when his release flooded you for the second time in minutes.
When the wave of pleasure receded and you looked up at him—both of you smiling, both of you gasping—you didn’t feel the languid satisfaction that usually came after good sex. Instead, you ached for more. And it wasn’t the greedy kind of craving born from something so good you wanted seconds. No, this was primal, bone-deep, the bond’s undying need to claim what was yours and be claimed in return.
Cassian studied your face. His hand rested on your lower stomach, as if he could feel his cock still buried inside you. But you knew he wasn’t referring to that when he asked, “You still feel it too, don’t you?”
Sitting up on the edge of the table, you only nodded. You had no words for it. The feeling went beyond that, rooted in every cell of your being. But you didn’t have to explain. Cassian already knew.
“It’ll probably take a while,” he said softly.
You didn’t know how he did it, how he could sound so gentle when all you could think of were the words again, fuck me, I need you, and every variation of the same primal plea.
“Most couples need around two weeks,” he went on. He didn’t pull out of you, just kicked off the pants still pooled around his ankles. Your eyes tracked every movement. “So we’d better get used to it for the next twenty days or so.”
He leaned down, and you thought he was about to fuck you again. But he only slid his arms around you and scooped you up as if you weighed nothing. His cock shifted inside you when you wrapped your legs around his waist, clinging to him, pressing every inch of your body against his. You both groaned, but his was rougher, breathier. Your toes might have brushed the delicate membrane of his wing. Accidentally, of course.
“You’re still hard,” you murmured, your face only a couple inches from his. Your nails trailed lightly down the back of his neck, a tender gesture at odds with the wildfire burning through your veins. But if Cassian, of all people, could keep control, then so could you.
“I am very well aware of that, sweetheart.” His low chuckle skittered down your spine. His hands cupping your ass didn’t help. Your cunt fluttered around him, unbidden, and he sucked in a breath as he began walking, still carrying you with ease. “Must be the frenzy.”
Your gaze swept over the room before returning to his face. “Are we going to fuck against the wall?”
Cassian raised his brows, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You want to fuck against the wall?”
You gave a little shrug. “You said we’d do it if I wanted.”
“And do it we will, then.” His playfully squeeze to your backside sealed the promise. “But that’s not what I had in mind right now.”
Before you could ask, he stepped into the bathroom. It was larger than you’d expected. White wooden cabinets lined one wall, marble counters gleaming beneath golden faucets, while the opposite side held a sunken bathtub. Not as big as the one at home, but still large enough for Cassian and his wings.
Your mouth nearly dropped as Cassian gently set you down on the counter. The marble was cold against your overheated skin, but your little gasp came from the sudden emptiness when your mate stepped back.
“I have a few questions,” you announced, holding up a hand. Counting on your fingers, you began, “One, how much did you spend on this cabin? Two, am I really supposed to believe you found a cabin lost in the woods with a tub big enough for an Illyrian?” His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “Three, why are we in the bathroom?” You lifted a fourth finger. “And four, why isn’t your dick inside me anymore, Mister General of the Army?”
Cassian failed miserably at stifling his laugh. “Well, aren’t you just getting feisty.”
You crossed your arms and arched a brow. His gaze dipped to your chest before he lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.” He raised a finger. “One, the cabin’s a gift, so I won’t tell you. But it’s not like we can’t afford it.”
Fair. True.
“Two,” he went on, “of course you’re not supposed to believe that. I had a few things adjusted after I bought it.” He moved to the sink, grabbed a towel, and ran it under warm water. His other hand stayed up, now showing three fingers. “Three, we’re here because I want to get you cleaned up.”
Returning to you, he held the towel in one hand and gently tapped your knee with the other. “Open,” he murmured.
Even with your arms still crossed, you obeyed, spreading your legs. Cassian dragged the towel over your thighs, wiping away your combined releases smeared across your skin. He was focused on the task, making sure not even a drop remained.
“And number four?”
He looked up at you, and that smirk you loved lit up his face. “Four, my love,” he answered, “is the same as three. I wanted to clean you up, and myself too. And I can’t be inside of you for that.” When he saw you about to protest, the smirk stretched into a grin. “Fine, you want a different answer. Alright.” He rinsed the towel quickly, then turned back to you. “It’s so I can come inside you again next time I fuck you. Can’t have you stuffed so full you can’t take more, right?”
Silence stretched while you considered his reasoning like it was life or death. But you had to admit, it was a solid point.
“Alright,” you said at last. “I can't argue with that logic.” You took the towel from his hand just as he was about to wipe himself down. “But I'll clean you.”
Cassian snatched it back in an instant. "Nuh-uh.” He shook his head. “I'll do it.”
You gaped. “What? Why?”
He looked at you like the answer was obvious. When you just stared back, he started wiping himself down. “Because you’d tease me.”
“Since when is that a problem?” you pouted, leaning closer from your perch on the counter. “I thought you loved it when I teased you.”
“I do, sweetheart.” He tossed the towel into the sink, and his smirk returned. “But now it’s not your turn,” he murmured. Then he dropped to his knees.
Your legs spread on instinct before your mind even caught up.
Cassian stared up at you from the floor, wings fanned wide across the gray tiles. This great warrior, this Illyrian general, kneeling for you. His lips brushed one knee, then the other, and then traced a slow, reverent path up your thigh. His warm breath ghosted over your skin, sending tingles racing through every nerve.
“Am I forgiven?” His words were muffled against your flesh. Your breath caught when he nibbled your thigh.
“We shall see.” You smiled down at him, challenging him from above. “Depends on your performance.”
Your fingers threaded through his hair, and you weren't sure who moved first, whether you guided him to where you needed him or if he buried his face between your thighs on his own.
All you knew was that a heartbeat later, his mouth was on you. He licked a slow stripe from your entrance all the way up before circling your clit with his tongue.
Your thighs quivered, but Cassian hooked his arms under your legs, locking you in place as he feasted. He always loved going down on you, but this was different. This was hunger. The frenzy he'd somehow held off until now. He was devouring you.
You didn't care.
It was messier than usual, like he couldn't get enough, like he wanted to drown in your wetness. His lips kissed and sucked every inch of your slick folds, his tongue licking and flicking and slipping inside.
Your head thudded back against the mirror, fingers twisting in his hair. His name slipped from your lips in a breathy moan, blending with his low groans of approval against you. His hands held you firmly, but you trembled, chest rising and falling in frantic waves.
Your body was on the edge once more. Surges of white-hot pleasure shot through you when his lips closed around your clit and sucked hard. You cried out, back arching as you ground your hips against his face.
“Cass,” you breathed, his name a plea.
Rolling your clit between his lips, he looked up at you. A flicker of determination lit his dark eyes when he met your gaze, and a second later his fingers probed your entrance. He pushed two inside.
You cursed under your breath, eyes fluttering shut as Cassian curled his digits and rubbed that perfect spot. His hand tightened on your thigh when you squirmed, but you couldn't keep still anymore.
“You're… you're forgiven,” you babbled, teeth sinking into your bottom lip to hold back the flood of filthy sounds. You failed miserably.
Cassian huffed a laugh against your slick flesh, and your hips jerked. His fingers drove deeper, twisting and curling just so, while his tongue never stopped teasing your clit. Not even when you shattered.
Your third climax crashed through you, and you couldn't help the broken cry that tore from your throat as you shuddered and squirmed. But Cassian was relentless. He still sucked, still stroked that spot inside you, even when you tugged at his hair in desperate search of reprieve.
He gave you none.
Only after your trembling stopped did his mouth leave you. Your eyes fluttered open to find him grinning up at you. It was the kind of grin that promised this was only the beginning.
His fingers stilled inside you as he stood, licking his lips. He kissed you—hungrily, greedily, stealing the air from your lungs—and you matched him with equal fervor, tasting yourself on his tongue.
And then, suddenly, his fingers slid out and he pulled you off the counter and spun you around. You yelped in surprise, but Cassian only chuckled.
“Look at you,” he murmured in your ear. One arm locked around your waist, pressing you back against his chest. “Look at us.”
Your gaze lifted to the mirror. Your face was flushed, your pupils wide, just like his. Cassian loomed behind you, wings tucked close, talons peeking over his shoulders. His eyes roved over your reflection, drinking in your heaving chest, your peaked nipples aching for his mouth again.
The mirror cut off just below your navel, the countertop hiding what lay beneath.
You pushed back against him, grinding against his hard cock nestled against your ass. Cassian sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening, and you smirked.
Covering his hand on your stomach with yours, you guided it lower, out of the frame and back between yours legs. “Are we going to fuck in front of the mirror?”
Cassian’s grin widened. “Later,” he promised. “We have all the time to test every surface, wall, and mirror in this house.” His hand slipped from beneath yours, and he laced your fingers with his instead. “But first, I want to test the bed. I want you on your hands and knees. I want you to ride me. I want you in every position that’s ever existed.”
With each word, your arousal spiked, as if your body had forgotten you’d already come three times. Normally, you’d be wrecked by now, begging Cassian for mercy. But you weren’t satisfied. Not even close.
You didn't argue when he led you toward the bedroom. “I remember someone complaining my dick wasn't inside of her,” he teased. You nodded, and he winked. “I’m going to fix that. And I’m going to make sure my mate never feels that way again.”
And he did. Mother above, he did.
The sun had long set and was already rising again by the time you collapsed into his arms. Not because the frenzy had burned out, but because your bodies needed rest, however brief. You bet you’d last for a couple hours. For Cassian, fifty minutes at most.
Even with orgasm after orgasm wrung from you both, even as his cock finally softened, neither of you could bear to be apart. Even if it was only for a little while. So when you curled up against his chest, legs tangled under the sheets, he stayed inside you. Soft and unmoving, but there, joining your bodies in a way nothing else could.
You fell asleep with your mind already set on tomorrow, on the quiet promise of doing it all over again the moment you woke.
~~~~~
Cassian didn’t sleep that night. He tried to, he really did, but the instinct to claim you one more time kept him up and vigilant. The need was a living thing inside of him, a beast screaming to be set free one last time. Except it wouldn’t be the only one. The sunrise was proof of how many “one last times” you’d shared since moving to the bedroom.
And his cock inside you? He still wasn't sure whether it helped or not. You were connected to each other, and your warmth was delicious. He loved feeling you around him, even when he wasn’t moving. On the other hand, though, he was inside you. The mating bond thrummed in his chest, its insatiable desire pulling his skin taut across his bones, as if aware even the smallest movement would bring back the satisfaction of the past hours. But even that would be fleeting.
When the wants and needs became overwhelming, Cassian caved in. At least two hours had passed. The sun was rising higher in the sky, and at least two sparrows were having an animated discussion just outside the window. He didn’t know how you were still sleeping.
Slowly, untangled himself from the embrace he’d held you in since you’d fallen asleep. You didn’t move. Not even a twitch in your cheek. So Cassian carefully tried to pull out, moving only a few inches at a time to gauge your reaction. As his cock finally slipped out, he was about to sigh in relief when you shifted.
He froze, waiting. But you only let out a small sigh and rolled on your stomach. He silently counted to ten, and when you didn’t open your eyes by the time he was done, he let out the breath he’d been holding.
The mattress dipped beneath him as he got up, stretching out his wings before folding them behind his back. He grabbed a pair of sweatpants from the pile of clothes he’d stored a few days ago, not bothering with underwear as he shrugged them on. Then, with one last glance at your sleeping form, he left the bedroom.
He needed to keep himself busy or he would go mad, and the kitchen had everything he needed to make you breakfast: eggs, butter, toast, and coffee. He set out to cook, even though he didn't know when you would wake up. He was just grateful to have something else to focus on for a little while.
A little while that was maybe a bit too little.
“Cass?”
Your sleepy voice called from the bedroom just as he was pouring the scrambled eggs into the frying pan. He went rigid, every cell in his body pulling him toward you, telling him to take you immediately.
Soft steps sounded behind him, and he finally turned around. Just like him, you hadn't bothered with clothes. The only thing covering you was one of his large shirts, and the sight stirred something inside him, and the sweatpants did little to conceal the outline of his erection.
You noticed it immediately. The lingering drowsiness in your eyes vanished as your gaze burned through the fabric of his pants. He watched your throat bob, your eyes darting to the pans on the stove as if debating what to do.
Cassian decided for you.
Food could wait. Neither of you could, and he was tired pretending otherwise. Without a word, he turned off the heat under the eggs. He didn't look forward to repeating the same mistake again.
He was in front of you in two single strides, mouth crashing against yours as if he hadn't kissed you in years. The little sound you made had him twitching in his pants. Never breaking the kiss, he grabbed your hips and started walking backward toward the couch. He only pulled back when he plopped down on the red cushions, but you followed soon after, climbing onto his lap and claiming his lips again.
“Need you to fuck me,” he mumbled between kisses, his hands roaming your thighs. “Please, sweetheart.”
You nipped playfully at his bottom lip. “That was the plan, my love.”
Lifting yourself off him, you reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, and Cassian raised his hips off the couch to allow you to drag them down just enough for his cock to spring free, already hard and leaking and aching.
You both looked down at it as you guided him to your wet folds and sank onto him, your cunt swallowing him greedily. Your groans mixed together as they rang through the room.
Your hands gripped the hem of your shirt, ready to pull it off, but Cassian stopped you, his fingers curling around your wrists.
“Keep it on,” he murmured. Seeing you on his lap, taking control while wearing his clothes, claiming him as yours in every possible way, was a very effective method to undo him in seconds.
You studied his face, then nodded. “Fine.” You gave him a mischievous smile. “But you let me wake up in an empty bed. You were gone.” He knew what you were about to say before you even opened your mouth. “Your dick was gone. Again.”
Maybe letting you ride him hadn't been such a good idea after all.
“Are you saying I'm going to pay for it?” he asked, already struggling not to thrust up into you. But you were so still above him, so calm and unbothered by everything, that he knew you wanted to drag this out.
“Yes,” you whispered, leaning closer. “We're doing things my way now.”
You kissed him again with a burning passion, but you didn't move. Your cunt fluttered around him, which told him enough about your own needs, but you held back. So at odds with the impatience you had exhibited only yesterday.
His hands slid up your bare thighs and beneath his shirt, settling on your waist. He didn't guide you to move, surrendering completely to whatever you had in mind.
Probably staying still until he begged you to fuck him. Or so he thought.
Instead, so lost in the hungry kiss, he didn't notice you had moved. His loud moan was muffled against your lips as you dragged a finger down his left wing. His body twitched, hips jerking up.
Cassian broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, his head falling back against the couch. “That’s cheating,” he managed, voice wrecked already.
You smirked, dragging your nails lightly along the sensitive membrane once more, and he shuddered violently. “No,” you whispered, lips brushing his jaw, “this is payback.”
His grip on your waist tightened when you repeated the gesture, his teeth gritting as he sucked in a breath.
“Shhh.” You trailed kisses down his throat, slow and deliberate, every brush of your mouth a test of his sanity and restraint. His hips twitched again, but your hands pressed firmly to his chest, holding him down. “I'm going to make you come like this.”
“Sweetheart…”
“And then I'll fuck you.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but only another groan came out. His eyes fluttered shut, and he just let it happen, welcoming it all. There was no changing your mind, anyway.
Over the years, you had learned every sensitive spot on his wings—the ones that made him tremble, the ones that drew the filthiest sounds from him, the ones that left him breathless. And now you used it all against him.
Every touch, every caress, every slow drag of your nail pushed him a little closer to the edge. When he squirmed and jerked up into you, you only bit your lip, as if barely feeling it. Meanwhile, he was panting, fingers digging into your waist, his skin burning where you left a kiss.
“My love…” he breathed. It came out as a pathetic whine.
He felt your lips curled into a smile against his neck. When your finger dragged down his wing again, applying just a bit more pressure than before, it pushed him past his breaking point.
His cock throbbed as he spilled into, and he heard a tiny gasp from you at last.
But you didn't give him time to catch his breath. Even as he slumped against the couch, you were already rocking your hips.
“Now I'm going to fuck you,” you murmured.
And you did, without holding back. You immediately set a fast pace, moving up and down on his cock. He matched your steady rhythm on instinct, hips snapping up to drive himself deeper inside you. The wet sounds filled the cabin, blending with both of your moans and gasps.
Cassian felt the bond's voracity loosen its grip on him as pleasure built again, but he knew it was only a moment's respite.
Yet it didn't matter. He didn't care. If this was the hunger he'd face for the rest of his life, he'd gladly spend the rest of his days trying to satisfy it.
Beneath the shirt, his hands slid up to your breasts, cupping the soft flesh, thumbs brushing your nipples. You leaned into his touch and closed your eyes.
“So fucking beautiful,” he whispered, drinking in the sight. You smiled, then thanked him by picking up your pace.
Cassian panted again, already feeling the knot of pleasure tightening in his core. He was close again. But your sharp moans told him you'd come with him this time, and he pushed on, determined to bring you both to the peak.
Your mouths met once more, desperate and greedy. When he squeezed your breasts, you brushed his wing again. And you both shuddered through another orgasm.
The eggs lay forgotten in the pan, the coffee untouched in its mugs.
~~~~
A week later, Cassian had done what he'd promised. The two of you had fucked on every surface of the cabin—from the wall to the floor, from the armchair to the dresser, in front of the mirror and in the tub.
For the first few days, you barely slept, barely ate. It just felt like wasted time, and you gave in only when your bodies begged for it. Often, you sat on Cassian's cock while you both picked at your food. It was the only way to get you to eat something, since you had apparently convinced yourself that taking him into your mouth and sucking him off would somehow trick your body into believing you were feeding it. Cassian had to bend you over his lap and spank that idea out of you.
But about a week later, the frenzy had quieted just enough for you to sit separately. Neither of you paid attention to the food, though, eyes locked on each other and hands trembling as you brought the forks up to your mouths. And then you were back at fucking.
Three dishes and two glasses shattered in the rush to reach each other as soon as you'd finished eating.
The only constant in your routine was the herbal tea you both drank every morning. Madja had given you one stronger than your usual before you'd left for the cabin. You and Cassian had agreed on not risking a pregnancy, not during your frenzy. A baby wasn't on your bucket list just yet.
It was during the second week that the first sign of exhaustion started to show. First, the pace was slower, more relaxed. It took you both a little longer to come, and Cassian began growing soft sooner. Then, you began sleeping for a few hours. Still not a full night of rest, but not even the two hours of the week before.
But it was only when Cassian fell asleep during sex, collapsing on top of you and pressing you into the mattress, that you knew something had to change. Because instead of waking him or pushing him off, you simply fell asleep too with an Illyrian as your blanket.
So Cassian decided you should take a break. Your bodies were sore and bruised. You had bite marks on your thighs and breasts, Cassian on his biceps and neck. His back was fully scratched too.
A relaxing bath was the solution.
You were sitting in front of him in the large tub, leaning back against his chest. His wings fanned out and rested against the edge, creating a little corner just for the two of you.
You had drifted off first, and Cassian had followed shortly after. He woke only when he felt you squirm against him.
He had no idea how much time had passed, but the hot water was now lukewarm and the bubbles from the oils he had poured in had disappeared.
“You okay?” he mumbled, his voice rough.
“Cass…”
The pleading now in your tone told him all he needed to know. And if that wasn't enough, then the way you pushed back and ground against his cock was pretty telling.
“Are you sure?” he murmured in your ear.
You nodded. “I need you.” But then, more quietly, you added, voice quivering, “I don't know if I can take it…”
Hearing you on the brink of tears, his heart clenched. “It's alright, sweetheart.” His lips brushed your shoulder. “I've got you. Just relax.”
His hands gently pushed your thighs apart, but not much, not wanting to overwhelm you. He only wanted to help you, his own needs forgotten.
His fingers found your clit, slowly circling it. Your breath hitched, and you lay your head on his shoulder, eyes still closed. He rested his cheek on top of your head.
You said nothing, barely made a sound, as Cassian pleasured you. His touch was gentle, his movements languid, and he was ready to spend his whole day like this if that was what you needed. He didn't pressure you, didn't say anything either, just offering what he could to make you feel better.
He was starting to think you’d fallen asleep again when you whispered, “More, please.”
“As you wish, my love,” he murmured, brushing your clit one last time before his fingers moved lower.
Your leg twitched when he pushed a single digit inside you. You found his hand that had been resting on your hip and laced your fingers together, squeezing gently.
“More…”
Cassian obeyed and slipped a second finger in. When you hummed quietly, letting him know that was all you wanted, he curled them inside you. He lazily stroked you, feeling your cunt flutter around his fingers, deliberately avoiding that sensitive spot until, minutes later, you breathed another “more, please.”
When you finally came, it was quiet. Nothing like the loud, twitching orgasms you'd had over the past two weeks. Just a soft gasp and the weary trembling of a still sore body, but it was probably Cassian's favorite reaction.
He pulled his fingers out and kissed your temple, then he sank lower in the tub, pulling you with him until the water reached your chin.
“Sleep, my love,” he whispered against your hair. He held you tight and closed his eyes too.
~~~~
By the fourth week, the frenzy had begun to fade. When you had sex, it was back to your normal rhythms from before you'd accepted the bond. You still did it more often than usual, but not nearly as much as the past few weeks. And now it was mostly sweet and gentle and unhurried, nothing like the raw, rough sex of before. You weren't fucking anymore—you were making love now.
The need was still there, not entirely gone just yet, but it didn't consume you anymore. You were in control, and most of the time it was easy to keep it at bay.
“Do you think we could go back to Velaris?” you asked one day over lunch. “I kind of miss home…”
Cassian looked up from his plate. “Honestly? Me too.” He gave you a small, tired smile before his expression became serious. “But do you think we're ready?”
You pondered his question, slowly chewing the last bite of your food. When you swallowed, you finally answered. “We could wait until we spend one whole day without sex, which also means no touching or grinding. None of that.”
“So just kisses, then?”
You nodded. “Yes, but only on the mouth. Nowhere else.”
Cassian considered, but eventually he smiled again. “Alright, sweetheart. It sounds like a fair deal.”
And it was also easier said than done.
That same day, you ended up naked on the couch. The evening after, you were making out and suddenly his mouth was on your nipples. The following morning, you made love as soon as you woke up.
It took another five days before you finally managed twenty-four hours with nothing but kisses and hugs. A lingering ache still throbbed deep in your core, but it was easy enough to ignore. You were sure it would disappear completely in a few more days.
Yet, as Cassian scooped you up into his arms and took to the skies, it proved a challenge not to let that need overtake you during the thirty minutes it took him to fly back home.
And though you wouldn’t stop teasing Feyre about it, at least now you could understand why she and Rhys had done it in the sky.
hi sol coming to u w another cassian request (there’s a serious lack of fics for him it hurts my heart :( )
but i always see this trope done w az where he’s confused between elain and reader, can we do one where cass is confused between nesta and reader? cass and reader have been together for decades, and maybe cassian starts to train nesta and in his fear of actually letting someone love him, he pushes his affections towards nesta because their relationship is difficult and that’s what he knows love to be. that’s what he feels comfortable in so he breaks it off with reader. telling her he think nesta might be his mate.
reader, as devastated as she is lets him go because she knows she and cass are mates, but she takes the approach of “as long as he’s happy i can live with that.” and as time passes cassian realizes like no, this isn’t how love always is. it can be peaceful and light and lovely. and that he and nesta find peace within each others friendship but he knows she isn’t it for him. and then so much groveling. begging on his knees, pleading for his sweat heart to take him back. maybe the bond snaps for him and since reader isn’t used to his knowledge of the bond and him feeling her feelings she accidentally projects all her sorrow down the bond and he takes his time proving that he’s sorry and that he loves you.
Fool For You
pairing: cassian x reader
warnings: angst, swearing, breakup/makeup vibes, possible smut, implied suicidal ideation, implied drug abuse, heavy themes, fluff is sprinkled in there but will be more prominent in part 2 , ugh i fricken love when you guys request the angsty stuff, brings me a special kinda happiness
—
You feel it before you ever see it coming.
This rift that forms, grows; solidifies between you and Cassian.
He doesn’t shuffle in as close at night like he used to, hands gripping at every inch of bared skin as if touch alone would brand his name against the surface. Instead, he sneaks under the covers, freshly showered and hair braided in a way that you’ve never taught him.
You wait for the kiss, the rumble of his voice and the whisper of his breath as lips form the words I love you.
He never says it.
His back faces yours and never once does he reach for you in his slumber. “Is everything alright?” You muster up the bravery to ask the following morning, sheets gripped near your chest like armor as you watch him strap the holsters for his weapons against his back and thighs.
“Fine.”
Even inch of you wants to believe him but his words are short, clipped; utterly uninterested. “Are you sure?”
His mouth purses, parts, closes again as if he’s got something to say but isn’t sure how to word it. “Everything’s alright—just distracted is all.”
Your head nods robotically, hearing but not believing. “You hungry? I can make you something before you go.”
“No need. I have plans.”
He doesn’t stay to watch the way your face falls. Doesn’t linger for a kiss or to brush pillow-mussed hair out of your face. Cassian’s gone before your lungs can even complete the process of a full breath.
You try to brush it off. To busy yourself with fixing the sheets, fluffing pillows and tidying up the space you share. But, instead of finding peace, your cleaning becomes obsessive; reorganizing the closets, shining shoes and sifting through the clutter in bedside drawers.
You don’t even mean to find it—you have no intention of snooping but the folded piece of parchment finds you anyway, catching on the bracelet dangling from your wrist and slicing at the soft skin beneath it. “Ow,” You hiss, inspecting a cut so shallow blood doesn’t even draw. Not until your focus shifts back to the crumpled paper that was shoved in the shadows.
Any comfort you’d accumulated promptly burns to ashes when you read its contents. The hope you’d latched onto smashes like glass, littering the space around you in glittering shards as you read Cassian’s blocky scrawl. It’s filled with confessions of a love not meant for you. Addressed to a name that’s not your own.
You’re not even sure when the tears start, just distantly aware of trails of wetness dampening the slope of your cheeks, traveling down the curve of your chin and neck.
The love note is damn near memorized by time Cassian finds his way back to the room, hours having passed in the blink of an eye and he stands as still as a board when he finds you in a crumpled heap on the floor, paper pinched between your fingers, eyes studying the words as if it’ll change who they’re meant for. He says your name with such caution, clearly expecting you to greet him with anger and malice but that would take up too much energy—energy that had been leached from your bones, leaving behind nothing but the husk of who you’d once been.
“How long?” You finally croak out, voice void and lifeless.
Cassian is too quiet for too long, clearly searching for the right words until the truth takes the reins and spills itself before you. “A few months.”
“A few months.” The way your shoulders cave in is devastating. You look like the sun with no light. A flower with no stem. A bird with no wings. “Then this isn’t just you being overly flirtatious. This is…there’s feelings involved here.”
“I can explain.”
You can’t help but cut him off before he finds some charming way to explain himself out of your ire. Taking the reins of the conversation is all too easy—the power entirely too addicting. “To explain, not apologize.” The breath you take is heavy, settles in your belly like lead. “You’re here to end this?”
Cassian takes a step closer and instinctively you take a step back, arms crossing over your chest in attempts to hold yourself together. “I have to.” It’s then that you pick up on the scent that sticks to him. One you recognize. One that doesn’t belong to you or the bottles of perfume you keep. “I think she could be my mate.”
You can’t work up the nerve to look him in the eye, fearful that the simple act of eye contact would be enough to have the tears bursting free from the dams working overtime to keep the current at bay. A deep breath fills your lungs, spine lengthening as you force strength into the fibers of your tone. “Okay.”
He reaches for you, fingertips millimeters away from brushing the curve of your cheek but you flinch away—creating space. His spine sags with remorse, shoulders set with shame, hand falling limp at his sides with regret pooling at his fingertips and you’ve had enough when hazel irises fill with pity. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Don’t be sorry, Cassian.” Your voice breaks, your smile shakes but it still doesn’t rob you of the kindness that drew him in in the first place. “Just be happy.”
—
The shift that follows is immediate, all of his things boxed up and left in front of the door of his old room. You don’t fuss or fight, you don’t even break anything. You just pack it up and return it to its rightful owner.
You remove yourself from family breakfasts and avoid shared dinners like the plague in fears of seeing Cassian flaunt his love with Nesta without a care in the world.
You ignore your found family’s attempts at comfort, brushing off any and all inquiries on how you’re feeling. Turning down invitations for nights out to try to get your mind off things. Shutting down irate rants from your friends as they ramble about all the ways you didn’t deserve this—how they wanted to make it right for you. “Don’t bother,” The words come out so softly, laced with such defeat its devastating.
“No!” Mor can barely contain her disdain, brows furrowed and lips twisted in a sneer. “This is wrong. What he’s doing—what they’re doing is wrong. You and Cass have loved eachother for decades all for him to throw it away over some cauldron-made floozy? I can’t just sit back and watch that happen.” She’s pacing, heels clacking against the hardwood floors so harshly you’re sure dents begin to mark their way through the shinny finish. “Why are you so damn calm?”
“Because, what’s the point?” You shrug, red wine swirling in your glass. It’s strong, a little bitter but it numbs you so gently, like morphine injected directly into your veins. “How foolish do I already look as the female who feels too much for a male who clearly felt nothing for me. Making a scene about it would just add insult to injury.” Your eyes are distant, fixed on a random spot on the freshly painted walls in the new apartment Rhysand insisted on funding. It’s bare; empty, walls void of character and atmosphere sucked dry of all care. “He thinks she’s his mate Mor. Her. I just don’t understand why he can’t see—“ Your head shakes left to right, chest caving in. Wine quickly fills that chasm, glass refilling every time you reach the bottom.
You don’t even mean to say it really.
Drunk words being sober thoughts and all that.
But, Mor latches onto the unfinished sentence like glue. Eyebrows furrow, pupils expand in confusion before dilating to pinpricks when realization settles in. “Can’t see…that you’re his mate.” Puzzle pieces fuse together, a perfect picture being painted right before her very eyes but the image is distorted; the wrong face on a familiar figure. “There is a bond. You are his mate—he just doesn’t know. You never told him.”
You don’t so much as flinch at her conclusion. Only sigh, prettily painted toes grazing through the fluff of your throw rug. “Doesn’t matter much now.” More wine fills your glass until the decanter runs empty, the corners of your mouth tugging down in a frown. “I don’t think it ever even mattered at all.”
The flowy fabric of Mor’s dress billows as she plops down beside you, weight sinking into the soft cushions of your couch. A fresh bottle appears in her grasp, cork releasing with a pop but this one she doesn’t share, just drinks straight from the source. It’s cradled to her chest, eyes trained on the side of your face, cataloging the lifelessness of your skin, the bags growing under your eyes, the way your cheeks begin to thin out from lack of true sustenance. “Just say something to him.” She urges, her tone pleading; eyes begging. “Say anything. I can’t stand to see you like this.”
“Say what?” Your head falls back in something worse than defeat; something more like acceptance as your neck rests on the lip of the couch. “No bond forces two as one, and he wants her.” Fresh tears gather in your waterline, sliding down your cheeks so silently you barely notice them. “He wants her.”
She says your name, vocalizing the syllables so softly, so full of pity it lurches you from your spot before the sorrow roots you in place.
“You know what, if he’s happy, then I’m ecstatic. I have so much free time now.” Clammy hands wipe against linen sleep shorts as you stand, shifting over to a pile of boxes in the corner. You occupy yourself with unpacking, finding new homes for items collected in another lifetime. “I can pick up a hobby or travel or something—I’ve always loved Summer and I’m sure Rhys could use someone to start mending the rift between the courts. It’ll be like a paid vacation.”
It’s obvious your friend wants to object. Wants to call you out on the avoidance that begins to take place but for some reason she doesn’t bother. Maybe she see’s that you can’t take much more—that the flame of your fight has been snuffed out and you’re barely able to keep the remaining embers alive. Instead, she nods, crossing her legs under her and silently watches the way you convert your emotions into finding the perfect place for pictures and obsessing over which wall best suits a rack full of throw blankets. “How long of a vacation?”
“However long it takes to be able to be in the same room as them without feeling sick to my stomach.”
You say it like a joke but nobody laughs.
—
Turns out, Rhys has a soft spot for broken women. Big brother instincts running on overdrive at the sight of your watery eyes, composure crumpling at a voice that cracks under the weight of the world on your shoulders. One look at your torment and you’ve been granted permission for an all expense paid trip for his favorite —only— emissary. The paperwork is drafted hastily, sent out to neighboring courts before the ink even has the chance to fully dry. A few responses return within the hour, requests granted, a list of stipulations attached and agreed upon before basic necessities are packed away and winnowed off to your first stop before the sun even begins to peak its head above the horizon.
You don’t even linger long enough to say goodbye.
Given the fact that there’s no timeline listed in the fine print of your extended leave, guilt lives in your gut at the abrupt departure but Rhys promises to handle the fallout in your absence and you can’t help but admit the distance is a indescribable relief. Perhaps, it’s the way Summer Court accepts you, although a bit hesitantly at first. Tarquin watches you like a hawk your first few weeks, cataloging your every move until he’s certain you truly are there to rebuild trust instead of being some pretty Night Court spy slinking about in search of their secrets or weaknesses.
Six months pass and instead of hovering out of necessity, he deigns to keep you close by choice; your quarters no more than twenty steps away from his own and filled with radiant opulence. Early mornings are spent with breakfasts shared, treaties discussed, plans made for leisurely strolls through his city until a genuine care is curated for his people and the customs they share. “Do you ever come up for air?” The High Lord muses over his fork, sausage speared through the shiny silver prongs.
Fluffy eggs are piled on jammy toast, crumbs catch on the corner of your mouth but you make sure not a speck stains the packet of papers your free hand holds onto, eyes skimming over trade agreements and a list of needs personally extracted from skilled healers, fresh market mangers and dock workers. Things they require from Night Court that they’ve lived without given the strain. “I can hold my breath for quite some time, you know. Nowhere near the end of my reserves yet.”
It’s a cheeky response. A little dry. Comfort in your environment bleeds through your tone and the High Lord before you grins at your casual banter.
“I can see that,” He shrugs casually, leaning deeper into his chair. Ankles cross under the table, his hair tumbling over the bare chest exposed in his unbuttoned linen top. “I suppose, I’m just worried you’ll burnout if you keep at this pace.”
“The wellbeing of your people is important,” You insist, one hand blindly reaching for a flute of champagne and orange spritz. “They’ve gone without for much too long.”
He hums, nodding softly in agreement. Under the table, his foot nudges your own, forcing your attention to him. “And you? What of your wellbeing?” Your brows furrow in confusion. “You haven’t mentioned a word of your family since the first week you arrived. No letters, no visits—your birthday is tomorrow. Were you planning on going back to celebrate?”
You bristle at the reminder, toast falling back onto to your plate, now forgotten. Champagne is sipped as you struggle to clear the knot beginning to form in your throat, guilt gnawing in your belly, forcing you to acknowledge the radio silence you’ve upheld towards the people you love back home. “How do you know about that?”
“Rhysand sent over a summons for your return for the special occasion.”
You groan, papers abandoned in favor of holding your head in your hands. A tension headache begins to form right between your eyes, vision already going blurry at the irritating thump, thump, thump that takes root beneath the surface.
“Well, some greeting that is.”
You jump at the sound of a familiar voice; it’s melodic, sultry, accompanied by the rhythmic click of high heels against polished floors. Wide eyes catch on the approaching figure clad in red, blonde hair falling down in waves down her shoulders. “Mor? What are you doing here?”
“I’m your summons.” She grins, not-so-subtly taking you in from head to toe. A little pout forms when noticing the weight-loss, the eye bags, the way you’ve let your roots grow out. “Rhys had a feeling you might ignore him if he only sent a letter.” You’re too stunned to stand but it doesn’t seem to deter her in the slightest as she continues her appraisal of you, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a hug. One nearly too tight.
Patting the arm around your neck, you shoot daggers at Tarquin but he pointedly ignores it, occupying himself by stuffing his mouth with fresh fruit topped with sweet whipped creams. “How proactive of him.” The words grit out like sand stubbornly stuck inside a shoe. “But, I hadn’t really intended to come back until I finished things here.”
“Boo!” She protests, swiftly snagging the glass of champagne you’d been nursing before her arrival. “If I accepted that answer, you’d never come home!” Mor says it like a joke but you can hear the truth in her words, the concern beginning to bleed into her tone, the desperate way she keeps her hands on your shoulder as if she’s afraid you’re going to disappear without a trace. “Please? It’ll be fun, I promise. I ordered a whole case of that good wine you like and I convinced Az to smuggle an ounce of mirthroot from the dealer he refuses to share with us.” She goes on for a few minutes, words running a mile a minute, more pretty promises spilling free until she see’s your walls begin to crumble.
You hate yourself for it, yet somehow, someway, Mor cons you into returning home for your birthday. The domino effect of your agreement is immediate and overwhelming. You, being dragged away from the table and led to your room so she can riffle through your closet and pick out enough clothes to last you a week. “Mor, I’m only going to be home for the night, two nights max—you’re packing my bag like I’m gearing up for war.”
“Just wanted to make sure you have options.” A white lie that’s easily detected, especially when she spends too much time collecting your usual jewelry from the dish resting on your bedside. “Speaking of options, how often do you and the High Lord of Summer spend breakfasts together?”
Shoulders shrug, your ass plopping onto the generous cushion of your mattress. “Everyday.”
A perfectly plucked brow raises. “Oh, really?” A conspiratorial smirk lives in the glossy corners of her mouth. “And does he always arrive at these breakfasts so….scandalously dressed?”
“This is Summer Court if you hadn’t noticed—can you blame the male for showing off a little chest?”
“A little chest?” Mor scoffs, hair flicking off one shoulder. “There’s nothing little about that male, anyone with eyes could get lost in the abs and a v-line peeking through that sorry excuse of a shirt. Don’t even get me started on his piercing.”
Eyes roll, a hint of a blush growing along the curve of your ears. It’d been so long since you’d had anything remotely close to girl-talk. “It’s perfectly normal here for males and females to have their belly’s pierced.”
Breezy pants, skimpy skirts and barely there shirts are robbed from your dresser, neatly folded and stowed away. Dresses with tummy cut-outs and generous necklines, thin tube tops and shorts so small their only purpose is to conceal the naughty bits are waved in the air with a pleased nod. “You’re going to give the boys back home a heart attack when you come through wearing these.”
“I don’t wear them to catch attention, I wear them to work on my tan.”
“And tan you are, one could mistake you for an Illyrian with that hue—it’s pretty. Makes your eyes pop.”
“You know what’ll really make my eyes pop? Some of that mirthroot. Did you bring it with you or was it just a bribe to get me back?” You’re being a brat, you know that. Mor knows that too. Either way, she supplies your needs, procuring a pretty velvet bag and tossing it your way. The scent smacks you in the face the moment you loosen its ties and a giddy little grin smears itself across your face. “Happy birthday to me—have you any clue how hard it is to find a reputable dealer here? Liqour, powder and mushrooms? Easy peasy. Anything else was next to impossible.”
Content with her pickings of your items, Mor leaves them by the door, following your lead to the balcony attached to your chambers. There’s a comfortable seating arrangement, brightly colored flowers blooming in golden pots that soak up sunlight and reflect its beauty. A spiral copper staircase leads directly to a rooftop pool that overlooks Tarquins personal gardens. Birds chirp, fish swim about in man-made ponds and crickets sing their song in the neatly trimmed bushes below. “Since when do you dabble in powder?”
“Since I found out my mate had been cheating on me with another female.”
It’s said so casually Mor freezes in place. Blue eyes slowly flicking over to you but you’re otherwise occupied, fingers breaking up buds, blunt paper unwrapped and catching the ground up plant. Your motions are fluid, practiced; something you seem to do often enough to have it completely rolled and sealed in under forty seconds.
“Don’t worry, I don’t have a problem or anything. Powder didn’t agree with me much.” One hand reaches over and a box of matches and an ash tray is procured from a little nook in the wall by the balcony doors. “Mushrooms were fun at first, until I started hallucinating images of my ex making out with his newest conquest in vivid detail.” The spark of flame to wood is like breathing for the first time again after swimming underwater for hours. Relieving. A saving grace. A life raft in the middle of a turbulent storm. “Liqour was my safest option but after a few times being caught belligerently drunk around town in the dead of the night, Tarquin started following me everywhere I went like he was afraid I was going to take a tumble off the cliffside.” You finally meet her gaze. “That’s why we have breakfast every morning—why we seem so close? He’s babysitting me so I don’t do something stupid to myself.”
Mor’s mouth opens, closes; tears welling up in her waterline. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” Legs cross over the other, frame situating itself in the floating wicker chairs cushioned with pillows the shade of teal. “Wouldn’t be great for Court diplomacy if Night’s emissary died on Summer’s turf.” Your shrug on the topic is annoyingly flippant, worryingly detached, painfully numb. “Anyways, how’s home? Anything new?”
She swallows thickly, searching for composure, pushing blonde hair away from her cheeks as the summer breeze shifts through the fabrics of her dress. “It’s really not the same without you there. Things are quiet—tense even. Like a machine trying to move without a vital piece.” Fingers gently pinch around the passed blunt, smoke flowing past her lips when she keeps speaking, eyes memorizing the lush sight of a trim garden, waterfalls and fountains, walkways encrusted with gems that sparkle where the light touches. “You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t write. Didn’t visit. I—we miss you, you know?”
Vision blurring, throat working over the emotion beginning to knot in it, you nod. “I miss me too.” You brush the vulnerability off as quickly as it appeared. “It’s nice to see you though, hadn’t realized how much until you got here.”
To keep your hands busy, you already begin rolling another, opting to let Mor keep the first to herself so you don’t have to keep passing back and forth. So you don’t have to explain why you inhale too hard and hold the smoke in your lungs too long. Why your hands shake or explain your dissociating when the thoughts get too loud.
All you wanted was something to numb the ache beginning to return in your chest.
“Do you know how much longer you’re going to be here?”
“I’m less than two weeks away from completing the re-organization of trade routes. Tolls and taxes have been reviewed, negotiated and signed off on. Just need to cross my t’s and dot my I’s before it’s time for me to move onto the next.”
Mor sits up straight, ash pooling into a little mountain in the tray. “To the next? You won’t be coming home right away?”
Utter silence fills the gaps, fingers fidgeting as you pick at your cuticles until they bleed.
“Are you ever going to come back?”
“We’ll be heading over after we finish these, I reckon.”
You know that’s not what she means.
You don’t look to see the way she deflates, attempts to fight the choice before giving up altogether. Frustration settles between her brows, sticks to the scrunch of her nose and smudges the corners of her mouth. Mor’s next pull is vicious, compulsive; smoke huffing out her nostrils like an angered dragon fighting not to breath fire. “Suppose I’ll just have to cherish you while you last then.”
It hurts. Stabs a sensitive piece of you that lacks proper armor but you take the hit. Eat the injury and take it to the chest like you do all the other punches thrown your way. “Guess so.”
—
The high that permeates through your bloodstream satiates your nerves long enough to muster up the strength to winnow back to the Court that raised you.
Too bad it doesn’t last nearly as long as you’d hoped.
Perhaps it’s the familiarity of this house and the people in it because your throat begins to swell shut when you step through the doors and are bombarded by a flurry of familiar faces.
Feyre is first to snatch you up, slender arms wrapping around your neck like a cobra ready to coil its body around you to keep you rooted in place. Tears wet your bare shoulders as muffled words of relief is breathed into your neck. “You actually came! I was so worried you wouldn’t.”
Rhys has to pull her back, intuitive to the way you try and fail to relax into the embrace. His welcome is far more tame, though the true extent of his emotion lives in his eyes—shown mostly in the way they scan you over, his smile there but weak as what he sees worries him to the bone. Your skin glows from all the sun but your soul withers like flowers who’d forgotten how to bloom. “I trust Tarquin’s been taking good care of you?”
“More than good,” You fix a smile on your face to soothe his concern. “He hovers worse than you do.”
Something in his posture implies he knows more about that than he lets on, hands rustling through your hair like a fond older brother. He memorizes the scrunch of your nose and the girlish way you struggle to get your hair back into place.
The sound of heavy steps forces you to turn, a tether pulling you taut until your eyes meet the ones that haunt your every dream. He’s a little smaller than you remember, hair cut a bit shorter than you used to do it. A braid you never taught him how to do is weaved behind his right ear, dangling like a reminder that another woman’s hands touch what used to belong to you. Cassian’s voice is all but a whisper when he finally works the nerve to use it. “You came back.”
“Didn’t have much choice, Mor wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
Her arm wraps around your shoulder, holding you close like she can tell your knees are going weak at the sight of him. “Damn straight.” She pulls you along before you get the idea to retreat and even though you have to pass Cassian to get to your old room, Mor stands as barrier between you and him.
You can’t help the glance over your shoulder, eyes meeting his once more. All he can do is stare, frozen in place; mouth agape as whatever words he’d intended dies in his throat as he looks at you like it’s the first time but you’re already turning the corner before you dare to figure out why.
“Where’s Az?”
“Finishing up some final touches for tomorrow. You’ll see him later.” Excitement bleeds through her every move, the contents of your bag on the bed like a kid sifting through a candy store. “It’ll be really casual tonight, family only—just to catch up. Hope you’re hungry.”
A glass and a half of wine and a blunt later, you are actually quite hungry. Mor forces you into a change of clothes, a comfy tube top and breezy pants that sit low, showing off the shape of your hips and the cute new dermals pierced into the dimples of your back.
It’s the first thing Feyre brings up when you enter the dining room. “Do they hurt?”
More wine is poured, an abundance of food being portioned off and placed before you. “Couldn’t say, I was a little wasted when we got them.”
“We?”
“The High Lord of Summer is incredibly daring off of faerie wine.”
You feel eyes boring holes into the side of your face, hanging onto every word like a fly caught in a trap. Teeth grind auadibly. Strained smiles are carved in the corner of Cassian’s mouth asa you enthusiastically recount your time alongside Tarquin and his people. Nails bite into the palm of his hands beneath a satin table cloth so dark it resembles an abyss.
Everyone’s celebrating, conversations carrying, voices overlapping, laughs bleeding into one another and yet you cant shake the irritating hyperawareness of Cassian’s eyes on your body. Subtly, you search for Nesta, scanning the room for her steely gaze and perpetually elegant updo’s but her presence never appears. You try not to look too far into it, willing your heart not to care at all but the task is a fools arrand.
No matter how many’s attempts made, your line of sight continues to gravitate his way; admiring the line of his shoulders, the width of his chest, the dimples that appears in his cheeks when he submits to the smiles his family draws from him.
You suppose it’s your fault in the end when Cassian mistakes your stare for invitation, his boisterous voice cutting through the clutter of conversation to insert his own inquiries in the mix. “Are you with him?”
Your jaw clenches, lids narrowing. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I think you and I both know exactly why it is my business.”
Instead of taking the bait and outing the mating bond you keep tucked away, you fixate on the soft plush of the rug beneath your toes. Over-analyze the obsidian rimmed crystalware holding specially procured wines. Inspecting the spices used in the roast and mash that used to be your favorite meal but now every bite disintegrates like ash on your tongue.
Fingers itch for a reprieve. A distraction. Another drink. More mirthroot.
A cross fade would ease the tension that lives in your shoulders, setting root in your spine until you sit like a statue in a place that should feel like freedom.
“I’m going to grab more ice, drinks getting warm.”
No one fights you even if they do follow your figure until it disappears into the kitchen. Grounding breaths are taken, hands braced against the countertops as you force your emotions in check, shoving them in a tiny little box so the ache doesn’t render you useless.
The double doors open behind you, a slightly annoyed sigh escaping you. “Mor I—“ Morrigan isn’t the one standing behind you. Elain is, watching you with a knowing look in her doe eyes. “Elain? I’m sorry —“
“You know,” Her soft tone cuts you off in a way that seems more charming than disrespectful. She takes her sweet time putting on her floral mitts before retrieving a fresh tray of baked goods out of the oven. “I dream about you sometimes.” Your jaw clenches, brows scrunching in slight confusion and yet you say nothing. “Of you and your mate.”
Your blood runs cold, heart all but stopping in your chest. “What did you just say?”
cassian is like, ridiculously good at giving head. It’s of course because he likes it, and doesn’t have to be begged for scraps of affection. He doesn’t play about you, he’d lick the sweat from your armpits if you told him to and he’d probably do it even if you didn’t tell him to. So naturally when he gets between your legs he’s not messing around.
He eats like a man starved. He moans and groans into it, creating vibrations that flow to your core in such powerful bursts they’re what tip you over the edge sometimes. He’s sloppy, your slick coating his chin and nose and beard and cheeks, and more of it trailing over your body wherever he licks you. He growls into it sometimes, coaxing you over the edge, prying for your release, ‘come on, sweetheart, give it to me. let go, I wanna feel you finish in my mouth. I want you riding my fucking tongue- come on, let go.’
His tongue is sinfully good at its job, curling and twisting and slurping and sucking and flicking and pressing and licking until you’re screaming just as loud as you do when he’s pounding into you. It’s never less-than, it’s never inferior to other sex, cassian gives you his all every time. He pairs it with teeth and lips and hot breath, scraping his teeth against your clit, biting your thighs, panting against you as you come down from your high.
Sometimes he lets you clamp your thighs around his head. Sometimes he wants them putting pressure over his ears, blocking out everything that isn’t the taste of your pussy. Which he prefers to be actual pussy, by the way, so go ahead and put down those nasty floral soaps that fuck up your ph levels. He wants your pussy to taste like pussy. He rests your thighs on his broad, muscled shoulders, beefy biceps curving around them so that you’re free to slam them shut around his head and suffocate him in your hot, wet sex. He wants to die there, he wants to die with his tongue buried in your folds, his mouth full of the taste of you, his hair nearly ripped out from your grip on it.
Sometimes he pins your legs down so that you can’t move them at all. He loves being enveloped between your thighs but he loves pinning you down too, staring at your wide open cunt, spreading you open and devouring you with his eyes before he does it with his mouth. It gives him more surface area to drag his tongue across, it means he can flatten his tongue out and lick broad stripes over your sex that have you writhing beneath his muscled arms still holding you down. He likes to put your ankles by your ears, baring your entire backside to him as he licks and bites and sucks whatever he pleases.
He gets lost in his own pleasure sometimes, forgetting that you’re halfway to an orgasm and taking the time to drag his tongue out of your cunt and over your thighs, across your shuddering stomach, around your nipples and whatever red marks he creates from biting at your breasts. It brings you to tears sometimes, wanting so badly for his tongue to be back inside of you, but he always remembers to supplement it with his fingers until he kisses his way back down between your legs. He prefers to lay you down, one because of the easy access it grants him, and two because he intends to keep you there for a while, and he can’t have his pretty girl’s knees giving out on her, can he? So you’re always kicking out, legs flailing and shaking as he ravages your pussy with his mouth.
