May 19, 2023
~words unspoken: "and i think elain—elain would like it, too. though she'd probably cling to azriel, just to have some peace and quiet."
all characters belong to @sjmaas
commissioned by me: @elrielbliss
art by: @.biting.lemons on IG
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~words unspoken: "and i think elain—elain would like it, too. though she'd probably cling to azriel, just to have some peace and quiet."
all characters belong to @sjmaas
commissioned by me: @elrielbliss
art by: @.biting.lemons on IG
Happy Elriel Month! So happy to have commissioned my first Elriel art. I'm SO happy to have worked with this artist as they went above and beyond for me <3
No reposts please. Pro-Elriel edits allowed with credits.
Butter My Bread
Elriel Month 2023 (Glances and Touches)
Elain Archeron is cranky and hungry. All she wants is some toast and bread. During Rhysand's birthday celebration, she uses an unexpected utensil to finally get her bread buttered. And then, all hell breaks loose!
No warnings! Just nice clean fun
Elain Archeron did not like chaos.
Not at all. She didn’t like things to be messy. She didn’t like disorganisation. She didn’t like spills, or rips, or dirty dishes. She didn’t like dust, or grime, or water stains. And today, was just of those days.
The kitchen, the larder, the pantry were all a mess—cakes were being baked, crates of fruits and vegetables piled on the floor, berry juice smeared over the counter, and crumbs were on the huntboard. You know what else didn’t help? Cassian. Cassian, sweet and too big, in this space, pawing at food, ‘sampling’ tarts and pies, offering advice that no one needed, dropping things on the floor.
“You are interfering,” Cerridwen told him sternly.
Defensively, he argued, “I am assisting. Not interfering.”
“One man’s ‘assisting’ is another man’s ‘interfering’,” Nuala threw at him. “Do you want to get in trouble with Elain?”
“Petal loves me,” he told her with bold confidence.
“If you eat another of her blackberry tarts, she will cut off your arm,” Cerridwen just shrugged, as she offered the gruesome warning.
“Precisely. She makes them for Azriel,” the latter was whispered in a hushed tone by Nuala.
“Why is he getting blackberry tarts?” Cassian frowned jealously. “I want them too!”
Cerridwen sighed and then murmured in a sing-song tone, “She luuuurvvess him…”
Brows knitted, Cassian stared at her dumbly.
“Who?”
“Elain.”
“Loves who?” he repeated.
The twins rolled their eyes and Cassian roiled his back at them.
“Elain’s got a mate,” Cassian reminded them. “Lucien likes blackberry tarts?”
“Sure,” Nuala sighed dramatically. “She baked them for Lucien,”
Cassian’s eyes jumped between the two sisters and then he announced, “well, since no one here appreciates my input, I guess I will be on my way.
“I hope that you are all cooking Rhys’s favourites!”
“Oh don’t worry. Only the best for the High Lord.”
Just before he left the kitchen, Cassian paused and then turned and asked,
“Wait, are you saying that Elain likes Azriel?”
Cerridwen looked at him and asked, “What would give you that idea?”
He smirked to himself. Yes, exactly!
*
It was Rhysand’s birthday.
Elain had spent the morning at the market, mostly to avoid listening to her sister getting railed by her mate. It was challenging—living with the two, now three of them. She appreciated the kindness, she loved baby Nyx and tending to him was her joy, but she always felt like an intruder. She was like a fifth leg on a dog—unnecessary, and ungainly.
And things have been even more uncomfortable lately, for a variety of reasons. She felt like she had no privacy, and with Fae’s acute scenting, she spent half of her time dodging her sister and Rhysand, or bathing. And Rhys was still watching her like a hawk, even two years after that Solstice. She’d learned how to navigate his suspicions, how to assuage his worries and how to dodge him, but she also existed in a permanent state of acute anxiety, which just didn’t help at all.
And what’s more, Cassian ate two of the blackberry tarts, and Elain was miffed. Ehhh…She was miffed at many things today, because the day wasn’t going well. She didn’t find fennel at the market, so her idea for a chicken dish with fennel and oranges went straight to Hel, and she was forced to think of something completely different on the spot. Elain liked to plan, so this wasn’t the way she enjoyed doing things.
She passed by the various stalls, the sight of meat and fish making her kind of queasy and the fact that she couldn’t make her chicken dish was making her upset.
“What’s wrong?”
Azriel’s soft, dark, husky voice startled her. How could a man so large, with his massive wings and enormous height, move so silently? How could he navigate among the shoppers and somehow, part them so smoothly, that Elain didn’t notice or sense him until the side of his arm was brushing against her body.
“Nothing,” was all she answered.
A smile touched his lips at her surly attitude and he pressed,
“Can I help?”
“No!”
He smiled again and then took her basket.
“Let me carry this,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong, sunshine?”
Exasperated, she announced aggressively, “they don’t have any of the ingredients I need! I am running behind. I am hungry. Cass ate all the blackberry tarts!”
“What do you want to eat?” he asked at once.
“Nothing,” she said petulantly.
“Elain,” he prodded.
“What?” she snapped. “I don’t want anything from here. It all looks disgusting. I want toast!”
“Alright, let me get you some toast then,” he offered reasonably.
“They don’t have the toast that I want,” she argued, her lip almost wobbling from how upset she was. “I don’t want to do this birthday celebration. I want toast. I want toast with butter.”
He gently took her hand and pulled her alongside him.
“Let me get you some toast, beautiful,” he implored. “I don’t want you to be upset. It’s just bread,”
“It’s not just bread!” she stomped her foot. “I want it with butter. I want bread and butter. And I don’t want to do the birthday celebration. Rhysand doesn’t even like me,”
“That’s not true, sunshine,” Azriel argued gently, herding her away from the meat and the fish stalls. “He likes you very much,”
“No he doesn’t,” she insisted.
“He doesn’t like you with me,” he corrected. “Otherwise, he adores you.”
“So why am I baking him cakes and making him dinner if he is keeping me away from the only thing that I want in my life?”
Azriel’s sharp features softened and he stopped in the middle of the road, and gently brushed his knuckles over her cheek.
“Am I the only thing you want?”
“You know it,” she murmured, kissing the scarred skin of his hand. “The one and only.”
Azriel looked around and his eyes zoomed on the gorgeous display of fish and seafood.
“Why don’t we get a couple of these large salmon—everyone likes salmon, don’t they? Some of these scallops—Rhys’s favourite and then we can send them directly to the River Estate. And I can take you out and get you some toast,”
She considered everything he said, wrinkled her nose at the seafood, and then nodded with approval.
“With butter,” she warned.
“With butter.”
*
Rhysand observed the gathering in front of him.
He was seated in an armchair, his arm firmly wrapped around his mate’s hip. Feyre, gorgeous in a pale blue gown, with her long hair loose and pinned with two diamond combs, lightly stroked his hand with hers, as she laughed at something with Mor. Mor’s already had a little too much to drink, and they haven’t even had dinner yet. It was something that he and Feyre had discussed before, on many occasions—Mor’s excessive drinking, which slowly, but surely morphed into controlled alcoholism. They’d have to address it with her. Eventually. Today wasn’t the day. Tonight was for celebrations, and not accusations or revelations.
Tonight, he wanted to enjoy being with the people that he loved.
He watched Lucien and Helion from the corner of his eye—their tentative, stilted conversation, as the two of them navigated their new reality. That of a father and son.
Rhysand wasn’t surprised by the fact that the news came as a shock to them both, and they didn’t rush into each other’s embrace letting all the bygones be bygones. It would take time. It was particularly difficult for Lucien, who struggled with being the seventh son of one High Lord, to becoming the heir apparent to another Court. All the while absorbing and dealing with the betrayal of his mother, who’d made choices that affected both him, and Helion. Rhys didn’t know what to think of the Lady’s decisions. He couldn’t judge her, but he also understood Lucien’s anger, for the male suffered for most of his life for sins not of his own making.
Rhys shifted in his seat, glancing at the loud red-headed Queen, who accompanied Lucien. The male had brass balls. He had the audacity to bring his apparent lover to this dinner, knowing fully that his mate would be here as well.
Rhys’s eyes moved on to the said mate—Elain. She sat by her favourite window, on the cushioned window seat, her back straight, her long golden-brown hair loose just like Feyre. There was a frown on Elain’s beautiful face, a sneer that she was attempting to hide, but evidently forgetting that it was there—bracketing her mouth, furrowing her brow. She’s been in a mood lately. He knew that she was avoiding him, and even Feyre. She took Nyxie to his playdates and cared for him when duties called Feyre away, but she preferred to take her meals on her own, or told them that she would be dining in the city. Feyre proposed that maybe Elain had a suitor, though he found the idea preposterous.
Unsurprisingly, Azriel made a quick, but determined stroll towards the object of his obsession. God, the male could never go for an available female! First it was Morrigan, who refused his advances, for whatever unknown reason. Though Rhys suspected that Mor wouldn’t be seen with a bastard born Illyrian, and therefore, cut her losses quickly. And now it was Elain, who had a mate. There were plenty of other—available—females out there, but Azriel insisted on pining for those he couldn’t have.
Whatever. Rhysand gave him an order and that was that. Azriel took an oath and it was his duty to serve his High Lord. Do his High Lord’s bidding. Even if Rhys felt marginally bad for his brother, he also understood that politically, this was wise. Elain was not Azriel’s. She wasn’t meant for him.
He watched Azriel whisper something close to her ear, and then offered her a glass of ice water.
“Are we getting to the table any time this year?!” Cassian groaned loudly and theatrically, not waiting for anyone else, including the High Lord/birthday boy.
“You’d think you haven’t eaten for a week,” Nesta snapped at him. “Wait up and let the others sit.”
Nothing changed between these two. Ever. They bickered and taunted each other, only to fall into some rapturous sexual adventure once they jacked one another up enough to start tearing their clothes off. The pairing was not Rhys’s favourite, but it was better than Elain and Azriel.
“Sorry if I’ve been saving up for this dinner!” Cassian patted his stomach. “I bet petal’s made all kinds of delicious things.”
Elain smiled at him, though it looked more like a scowl, and then got up from her window seat, with Azriel hovering behind her like a shadow.
Rhys wondered if Azriel knew how obvious he was?
But maybe not. Because apparently, Cassian still had no idea that Azriel desired Elain.
It was…messy.
Amren took her seat first, not waiting for anyone else, as if she was the hungriest of them all. Everyone knew that she’d barely eat anything.
At last, everyone was seated behind the lavishly decorated table and Cassian began pouring wine, laughing at something with Mor.
“To another 540 years of bliss, Rhysie!” Cassian raised his glass and wrapped his heavy arm around Rhys’s shoulders. Rhys sighed and whispered, “please don’t remind me…”
“Come on, brother! You are still a spring chicken!”
“Most of the days, I feel like a well-aged rooster that’s being fattened up for the next soup,”
Elain snorted a laugh—the first genuine one that Rhys had observed from her.
Feyre got up and cupped his face in her hands, before pressing her lips softly to his.
“Happy birthday, Rhysand darling.”
“Thank you, my love. And everyone who joined me tonight. You make my life complete.”
“Completely intolerable more like,” Helion joked, raising his glass as well.
“I wasn’t going to say that…but now that you mentioned it,” Rhys smirked and sat back down.
Nuala, Cerridwen and other servants began bringing platters of food out—smoked fish, Azriel’s beloved beet salad, carefully arranged boards of cheeses, cured meats and dried fruit, spicy meatballs that both Nesta and Elain loved, bread and butter.
The conversation fell into the usual back and forth of jokes, jabs, laughter, teasing, and stories.
It was both disturbing and adorable to watch Azriel hover over Elain like a mother hen, offering her this and that, though she only picked at some salad and didn’t lose her scowly expression. Whatever was bothering her, the dinner wasn’t making it much better.
“May I have the bread?” she asked Vassa, who was nearest to the breadbasket. Before Vassa heard her, the bread was snatched away by Helion, and then went over to Feyre.
“May I have the bread please?” Elain requested again, eyeing the basket hungrily.
“Hold on one sec, petal,” Cassian reached across the table, but the corner of his jacket swiped Elain’s silverware off the table and onto the floor.
“Oh fuck!” he cried out, “sorry!”
In the commotion and all the jostling, no one noticed how Elain got up and suddenly, her voice boomed loudly, an angry note to it,
“May I have the gods-damned bread! For fuck’s sake!”
Everything and everyone came to a complete halt. Elain using her voice this loudly was unheard of. Elain cursing and using bad language was shocking.
Azriel stood up abruptly and grabbed the bread, while everyone just stared in confusion.
It was what she did after she got a thick slice of crust bread that really lived on in the family lore.
Without batting an eye, Elain clasped the hilt of Truth Teller which was attached to Azriel’s thigh and pulled it out of the sheath, slamming it into the butter dish and smearing her bread with a heaping mound of butter.
While utensils dropped and clattered on the plates and the table and everyone just stared, mouths gaping, eyes wide, she slumped back down in her chair and bit into the slice with an audible pleasure-filled ‘mmm’.
Elain Archeron just used Truth Teller, with which she killed the King of Hybern, to butter her bread.
Azriel’s only reaction was to ask ‘good?’”
“So good!” she nodded eagerly, chomping the bread down like she hasn’t eaten in a month.
Mor began choking on her salmon loudly, while Helion was slapping her back, everyone was looking around, like lost children, while Azriel tore off another generous slice of bread for Elain, who used Truth Teller to smear butter on it.
“I hope it’s disinfected,” Nesta wrinkled her nose, watching the blade spread soft butter over the bread.
“it’s fine,” Elain waved her hand. Chewing contently, she asked Mor, “are you alright?”
Mor was still gasping for air, with Feyre and Helion hovering over her, and Lucien pouring her a glass of water.
Amren was chuckling.
Rhysand was feeling perplexed. Like something was happening around him, and he didn’t understand what it was. A secret that he was not privy to.
Mor finally caught her breath, panting loudly, her beautiful face red and sweaty. She collapsed back in her chair, watching Elain and Azriel, while Elain was busy with her bread.
“What would you do if I was choking?” Elain suddenly asked with a grin, looking directly at Az.
Azriel almost choked himself on his wine and then said quickly, absently, his eyes on Mor, “Pull back a little…or release your throat,”
“Wha-?” Cassian’s eyes bugged out and the rest of the table turned to the shadowsinger now, staring at him with confusion and incomprehension.
“What are you talking about?” Feyre queried, puzzlement on her lovely, soft face. “You shouldn’t even be touching her throat if she is choking,”
Elain squirmed in her seat, her cheek bright red, and a light sheen of sweat sprung over Azriel’s temples, while Rhys’s eyes became as big as saucers.
“Feyre darling,” he reached out to drag his fingers over Feyre’s cheek. “What Az means to say is,”
“I am having a baby,” Azriel declared loudly, his voice both panicked and excited. His gaze found Elain’s wide, shocked doe eyes and he smiled at her, before saying, “Elain…Elain is having a baby. We are having a baby.”
Complete silence engulfed the air around them. Such deafening silence that everyone’s rapid breaths sounded like gongs. Amren grinned like a fiend. A deep crease originated between Nesta’s eyebrows as she glared at Azriel.
“Wait, what? I am confused,” Cassian broke the silence at last, his head pinging back and forth, seeking answers. “What baby?”
“Azriel!” Rhys rose from his chair, his look both enraged and horrified. “What did you do?!”
“Yes, I’d like to know that as well,” Lucien shrieked from the other side of the table.
Azriel gently placed his large, scarred hand over Elain’s flat belly and said,
“Save it, Rhysand,”
“Wait, I don’t understand,” Cassian repeated helplessly. “Why are you having a babe with Elain? What’s that mean? “It means,” Nesta snapped angrily, “that he impregnated Elain! That’s what it means! He took her dishonourably and,”
“Wait a minute!” Elain slapped her palm over the table, so that the dishes jumped and the glasses clanged, “he did not take me dishonourably!”
“Flower,” Azriel cautioned her gently, trying to pull her back, but she glared at them all and suddenly twisted her finger and showed the crowd a ring that adorned her finger. It was a hefty thing, with a large square sapphire and diamonds around it.
“We are married,” she said softly.
A tense beat of even more shock, more surprise, more of everything fell on the table.
In the doorway, the wraith twins stood silently, both grinning.
A whoop of such utter joy and love tore from Cassian’s lungs, as he tackled both Elain and Azriel in his massive arms, lifting them off the floor that even Rhys stopped in his tracks.
“You got your girl, Az.”
Azriel, looking emotional, nodded, pressing his face into his friend’s neck.
“I got my girl,” he confirmed breathlessly.
Cassian pulled him closer, embracing him tightly.
“The one that’s for you!”
“Yes. My girl. The only one for me.”
“We made it, brother,” Cassian gasped, tears streaming down his sharp cheekbones, as he squeezed Azriel’s face in his hands.
Azriel stepped into his brother embrace, wrapping his arms around the general, and whispered, “We made it, Cass. We really did. And now, I finally have my girl and my babe.”
Elain stood next to them, wiping her own tears, while the two greatest Illyrian warriors wrapped their arms around her, kissing the top of her head together, at once.
“Now, can someone please get my pregnant wife some toast?” Azriel asked, holding her to him, and never letting go.
THANK YOU!! 🌸💙🗡️🌹
Thank you to everyone who participated in Elriel Month. Those that wrote fics and headcanons, created and commissioned artwork, who put together moodboards, aesthetics, and playlists, and more! And a thank you to those who liked, commented, shared, and interacted with all of the beautiful posts that were shared with us. Elriel Month could not have happened without all of you. 🫶
Here’s to a confirmation hopefully soon! But until then, continue to keep that Elriel love. 💜
We’ll be back to celebrate next year. 🎉
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The secret AU in my mind!
Pairing: Elriel Rating: E Word Count: ~2k Tags: Kindergarten Teacher Azriel, Shibari Artist Elain, Fluff, Smut, Social Media, BDSM, Modern AU Summary: After a messy breakup with her college sweetheart, Elain retreated from her life as a social butterfly, moved home to Velaris, and started a work-from-home career as a shibari artist and a playful, kinky influencer on social media. She’s perfectly comfortable at home, using her earnings from her small online empire to build a greenhouse in her backyard and start a side-hustle as a florist.
But her little sister, Feyre, is eager to get Elain out of hiding—and to set her up with a man who she might cling to for some peace and quiet. However, there’s more than meets the eye to Feyre’s long-time friend and the local kindergarten teacher, Azriel.
And Elain knows it all too well.
Read this fic on AO3!
Azriel was beyond fucked, actually.
Oh, but I always thought your hands were so beautiful.
The words echoed in the suddenly empty space between his ears until his fingers clenched atop his thighs at the obvious lie in them, but the voice—
The voice—
That was @boundinivy’s voice.
He was all too aware of his body as he schooled his expression into careful neutrality, forcing himself to remain impassive as he turned to face the newcomer at the table.
He looked to his right and found Feyre’s second-oldest sister staring back with something akin to horror on her stunning face, every intelligent thought melted from Azriel’s brain, surely dripping out of his ears and making a gory mess of the sticky booth he had been shoved into an hour ago.
Because without any warning at all, he’d somehow found himself face-to-face with the woman who had commanded his fantasies for nearly two years now.
She looked sweet, all full cheeks and wide doe eyes and a lush mouth—currently parted in a shocked O—that begged to be worshiped. He ignored the flash of Nesta’s outrage in his periphery as he took in the full, unfiltered sight of Elain Archeron staring down at his hands with a look of surprised recognition that, after fifteen years, Azriel knew all too well.
He nearly groaned as his own eyes slipped downward.
Although Bound in Ivy had never revealed her face, always framing her shots from the shoulders down, he had followed her long enough to recognize her body at a glance.
The subtle swell of those breasts, the generous curve of the hips he dreamed of sinking his fingers and ropes into, the constellation of freckles on the back of her forearm—he knew every dip and curve like the hideous back of his own hand. Fuck him, those little dark spots on her skin had fascinated him when she posted a coy crochet tutorial last winter when she was too ill to tease any sort of sensuality for a few weeks. For months afterward, he found himself connecting those dots in his mind, calculating the distance between freckles in inches of rope.
Azriel’s cock pulsed as he watched the blush melt down to the hollow of her throat and disappear beneath the collar of her dress. He was going to hell for it, but he knew damn well knew what was beneath that frilly blue dress, too: dusky pink nipples and a golden bed of curls between her thighs and small, pale scars on her abdomen that she had once shyly admitted were from an appendectomy when she was nineteen.
He knew it because Elain Archeron was Bound in Ivy.
He caged that thought, locking it away and shoving it into the blackest, most barren recesses of his mind.
Because he knew Elain, just Elain, too, but only in the way anyone knew a second-degree connection who mostly posted photos of ferns and flowers to Instagram. He’d skimmed over her most of the time. Had relegated her to a distant, secondary role in his life—one as the sister of the painfully young student teacher Rhys had fallen for during his quarter-life crisis. He was only following her because Cassian had snatched his phone out of his hands five years ago and said he had to follow her. Nyx had come into their lives, so they were all somehow meant to belong to one big, happy family by some convoluted twist of logic.
Still, Azriel had never paid much attention to the elusive middle Archeron sister; as beautiful as she was, as creative and kind as her online presence seemed, there had been no point in engaging with her when she lived in Summer or Spring or wherever she’d landed after college. When she finally moved to Velaris years later, Feyre had gotten weepy the one time Mor asked about her; for whatever reason, Elain hadn’t been well enough to attend their family dinners. Occasionally the dinners were taken to Elain’s little house in the suburbs, occassionally Elain joined Feyre and Rhys for a night out, but unlike Cassian, Azriel had decided to make his excuses and stay home rather than inflicting himself on a stranger in such close, intimate quarters.
So that had been that, and now the world was tilting on its axis, the sky was falling, and Azriel forced to come to terms with the fact that he was a gods-damned moron who lacked so many brain cells that he had effectively written off Elain Archeron as too gentle and too sweet and too distant to bother making nice.
“I mean—” Elain blurted into the silence that fell around them. She blinked those luminous brown eyes at him, the hand that had been reaching for the cookies returning to knot itself in the little bow tied at the waist of her dress. “I mean, oh, I just…”
A small, mindless twist of her wrist had four of her fingers bound in silk, and Azriel shifted in his seat, propping an ankle on his knee to hide the automatic way his body responded to the sight of the small slip knot she crafted from the remaining length.
“Ahem.” A glance across the table revealed Mor’s lips curling up at the corners as she looked between them, her hands fisted together and propped beneath her chin. “I didn’t think you two already knew each other.”
Nesta’s cold eyes went impossibly colder, icicles spearing into Azriel from across the sticky-topped table, but Feyre sank her teeth into her lower lip, eyebrows rising high enough to disappear beneath her messy fringe.
Azriel opened his mouth, thinking quickly, “Just from Instagram.”
“Oh?” Nesta asked, her suspicion softening only minutely as she turned it toward Elain.
“Yes.” Elain straightened beneath her sister’s scrutiny, freeing her hand from the knots she’d absentmindedly crafted, and reached for the cookies that Mor pushed toward her. Coolly, she selected one, seemingly shaking off her nerves along with the sprinkles she dusted off of the icing and into the little plastic dish. She ignored the mournful sound Mor made as she did. “A few weeks ago, when he posted that project his students did for their Autumn equinox party to his story? The leaves were all labeled wrong. I messaged him to let him know.”
Over Elain’s shoulders, Feyre perked up. “You never told me that.”
“It didn’t seem important,” the beautiful liar said. She nibbled the edge of the cookie, avoiding the swirl of frosting atop it, and then…
She glanced up through her lashes at Azriel. The look she gave him inquisitive, searching, and—
And done with an inviting, submissive ease that punched the breath from his lungs.
Her gaze dipped to her waist next, and he tracked them as they ventured through the shadows beneath the table to the hands still fisted on his thighs and then back up to his eyes.
May I? she seemed to ask.
It wasn’t his place to deny her. He reached for every inch of steel in himself, anchoring himself to the hard seat in that booth.
She was Bound in Ivy, and he was the Shadowsinger, and their shared knowledge of that fact stretched as taut as their ropes between them. It hung suspended in the air, tangled and trapped and begging for their attention.
She held his stare as she licked the crumbs from her glossy lips, a slight, nervous tremor building in her limbs as she bought them another second while their audience watched.
He became too aware of the pull of his skin over his bones.
It wasn’t his place to deny her anything. Not his place to allow anything.
Not yet.
He could see the game laid out for him in those brown eyes—moves and countermoves waiting on a checkered board, anticipating his next step. Preparing to choose a strategy.
Azriel dipped his chin.
The pleased flutter of her eyelids, the deepening flush on her cheeks, the way the cookie she held crumbled between her fingers… He cataloged every bit of her reaction, committing it all to memory as Bound in Ivy smiled sweetly at him and then turned away.
Elain shrugged at her sister, a shy flick of her eyes turning that blushing, heated look to shame. “It was just a few DMs, and then we facetimed for a few minutes so I could show him which labels needed to be swapped. I didn’t realize I had, ah… fixated elsewhere during that conversation.” She lifted her own hand to the back of her neck, drawing his eyes to the smooth, silken skin of her neck. He could only imagine how soft it would be. How hard he could make that pulse race beneath his touch. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Uncurling his fingers was like bending steel, but Azriel forced his hands to relax, breathing through the stretch of his stiff joints, and lifted them above the table to brush away the small graveyard of crumbs. He felt more than saw Mor’s keen interest in the move—and carefully ignored it. “No harm, no foul.”
“I didn’t know you posted stories of class projects, Az.” Nesta’s voice was dry as the crumbs he deposited into the paper napkin he grabbed from the dispenser in the middle of the table.
“Sometimes.” Azriel lifted a nonchalant shoulder. “But if your sister knows her flowers as well as her trees, I’ll probably need some help with the bunny project I’m planning for Nynsar this spring, actually.” His eyes cut to Elain—to the mouth that fell open in a sweet little round that tempted Azriel to take a taste of it.
Pursuing his godson’s aunt was a bad idea. Not just bad; it was a terrible, world-endingly awful one, if he were completely honest with himself.
But Azriel was incapable of backing down from a challenge, especially when it was presented to him tied up in pretty ropes and garnished with violets on a silver platter.
If sweet Elain Archeron wanted to play, then he would simply have to beat her at her own game.
“We’re going to be knotting up yarn for pom-pom bunnies and then topping them with felt flower crowns. I’d hate to prep any off-season flowers for them.”
“Oh, that’s perfect!” Feyre leaned around Elain, beaming at them both. “Elain loves to crochet, you know. She used to be so crafty in school, and she’s setting up a little greenhouse in her backyard now, too.”
Azriel lifted a brow in response, finally letting himself think of how creative he knew the incorrigible little rope bunny beside him could be. Of the naughty video he had watched not two hours ago after locking himself in his car to wait for Cassian. Of the rows and rows of flowerbeds and glass walls in the background of that clip while she teased her audience.
He wondered if she could still feel the slide of the rope against her skin the way he could feel it sliding through his palms as he watched her.
“It would be fun, wouldn’t it, Elain?” Feyre nudged her sister, and Az leaned back in his seat, watching as she did his work for him. “You’re still on a flex schedule, right? You could even go help Nyx’s class put them together if you have the time.”
“Yes, I could,” Elain agreed faintly.
Her eyes shot to Azriel’s, and he smiled at her—softer this time, a true invitation. Come or don’t. Play or don’t, he hoped it said. No hard feelings.
She let out a breath. “I’d love to help.”
Sorry for the wait on this update, everyone! I was caught up in the Visions of You Elriel universe for a little while. As a reward for your patience (and in thanks for your kind words on the first chapter), please expect one or two more chapters of this fic this week!
Pairing: Elriel Rating: E Word Count: ~4.7k Tags: Kindergarten Teacher Azriel, Shibari Artist Elain, Fluff, Smut, Social Media, BDSM, Modern AU Summary: After a messy breakup with her college sweetheart, Elain retreated from her life as a social butterfly, moved home to Velaris, and started a work-from-home career as a shibari artist and a playful, kinky influencer on social media. She’s perfectly comfortable at home, using her earnings from her small online empire to build a greenhouse in her backyard and start a side-hustle as a florist.
But her little sister, Feyre, is eager to get Elain out of hiding—and to set her up with a man who she might cling to for some peace and quiet. However, there’s more than meets the eye to Feyre’s long-time friend and the local kindergarten teacher, Azriel.
And Elain knows it all too well.
Read this fic on AO3!
Azriel Teller was so fucked.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
A breath hissed through his teeth as he took one long, final glance at his phone before swiping out of the app he’d been scrolling through and stowing it in his oversized tote—a Teacher’s Friend, the Amazon listing named it. Really, it was a heinous mishmash of faded denim and novelty buttons shaped like pencils and apples, but the abundance of pockets, including one for a supersized water bottle, couldn’t be beat.
Often, Azriel found himself wondering which poor elementary school teacher had to die so the manufacturer could tear her themed rompers out of her cold, dead hands for his bag.
The scent of crayons, Elmer’s glue, and stale coffee assaulted him as he pushed through the small employee entrance at the back of the school. The faded couch in the faculty break room seemed to sag when he passed it with only a small, sidelong glance—the old beast was still standing, at least for today—to toss a crumpled grocery bag full of the odds and ends that made up his lunch into the fridge.
He was pretty sure he’d packed a whole bell pepper, some lo mein that was edging its way past its prime, and a bottle of salad dressing today. Pretty sure, because he hadn’t looked as he packed his lunch. He wasn’t even sure if he had any utensils for the lo mein.
He had been too busy filling his supersized water bottle with cold brew and scrolling through TikTok, as he did every morning.
Azriel couldn’t be certain, but he thought the couch might have groaned in disappointment as he passed it on his way out of the break room
A glance at the watch strapped to his wrist made him pick up his pace. With only ten minutes until the doors opened and kids started flooding in, he needed to at least get the lights on in his classroom and get a video looping mindfulness and affirmations going on the projector.
The Meditation with Miss Gwyn Youtube channel was the only damn thing he knew of that kept twenty-seven five year olds hyped up on maple syrup and sugary cereal bars calm until morning recess.
He made it to his room without incident, sidling past Merrill’s fifth grade class, and dug a hand into his Teacher’s Friend for his keys. The lanyard caught on his wrist, and he pulled, blindly selecting the proper key and shoving it in the lock—
“Az!”
The Spanish teacher strode down the hall toward him with a student perched on his shoulders—Nyx, Rhys’s son. The principal’s son, which was why he got to be the one child in the building before opening hours and not outside with his classmates and the teachers who had the extreme bad luck of pulling morning drop-off duty this month.
Nyx untangled one of his hands from Cassian’s hair and waved. “Hi!”
Azriel folded his hands together behind his back. Calm, cool, and collected—that’s who he was. That’s what he was manifesting for his classroom this morning.
“Hello, Nyx.”
Cassian caught his eye and waggled his brows. “It’s Friday, brother. You up for Rita’s tonight?”
Despite himself, Azriel scowled back.
Cass’s smile sharpened—challenge accepted, it seemed to say—and Nyx dissolved into a gale of laughter as he practically crawled down Cassian’s body to get to Az.
Hopes for a calm day shattering, Azriel still had to swallow down his own amusement; all of his students seemed to think that his penchant for wearing black and frowning deeply at them when they were too rowdy to pay attention to his lessons was the most amusing thing they’d ever seen. It was delightful, even though it turned basic classroom management into a special sort of hell for Az.
Tiny heathens they may be, but he thought the collective sense of humor of five year olds was unmatched.
“Come on.” Cassian unhooked Nyx’s legs from his shoulders and deposited the madly giggling child at Azriel’s feet. He waved a hand down the hall toward the specials classrooms where he and Feyre reigned. “Feyre already talked Rhysie into paying the tab, so you’re coming, like it or not.”
Nyx’s grin turned devilish. “Rhysie.”
Cassian pointed at him, “Don’t tell your dad.”
Nyx shrugged.
It was not a shrug of agreement.
But Cassian was appeased, because he turned back to Azriel.
“Mor will be there,” he crooned, off-tune and off-putting. “Her half-birthday is coming up so she promised to bring those fluffy icing cookies she and Feyre love.”
Once, that would have been enough to light a fire under Az’s ass. He would have gone to Rita’s and stuffed himself with cookies that tasted like some mad scientist decided that sugar and chlorine were a perfect flavor combination if it meant Mor might look at him twice. But now…
“Mm. Lofthouse. My favorite,” he deadpanned. At Cassian’s pointed—and disappointed—look, Azriel shrugged. “I’ll think about it. It’s been a long week.”
He would, too. But he would be thinking about how exhausted he would be after nine hours of wrangling twenty-seven kindergartners without the teacher’s aide the district had been promising him for years now. How his caffeine problem was definitely messing with his ability to sleep through the night. How he just wanted to go home after a long day and load @boundinivy’s blog to see if she posted the video she’d teased that morning on TikTok.
God, he needed to see that video.
A small tug on his belt loop caught his attention.
Azriel looked down.
At his side, Nyx swayed on one foot, one set of small fingers gripping Azriel’s belt loop to help him balance. The other was knuckle deep in his nose as he dug and dug, sniffling and snorting.
Cassian grimaced. “I’ll let you get settled in for the day. Be good, Nyx.”
Azriel sighed through his nose as Cassian clapped him on the shoulder (“I’ll be back to drag you out of here at 3:30!”) and all but sprinted back down the hall, preparing himself for a long, long day as he swiped a box of tissues from the bookshelf just inside the door.
A small voice piped up from knee-level.
“I’ll go if you go.”
Azriel shot his godson a look.
“Neither of us is going.” He kept his face straight as Nyx frowned up at him, inspected the finger that had been in his nose, and stuck it in his mouth. “Mother above, come on, pal. We can treat ourselves better than that.”
With a tight grimace, Azriel returned the tissues to the bookshelf. Nyx was already wiping his finger on his shirt, and Az decided that it was better not to waste such a precious commodity at all when, apparently, the kid preferred alternative methods of booger disposal.
The neon sign in the window of Rita’s Taphouse taunted Elain as the steps up from the metro station spit her out into the middle of Arktos Avenue.
O… P… E… N.
Each flashing letter bathed the slush-damp pavement in a fresh wave of blue light. Each ticked down another second she was late to meet her meddling little sister.
She bit her lip and glanced down at her phone. Half past five—half an hour late.
More than half an hour, she thought, slowly mincing her way across the slick street. Although her sturdy winter boots were suited for the ice and wet, the fluttery skirt of the dress she had been foolish enough to wear beneath her woolen coat was not, nor were her thickly knitted tights.
She shivered at the thought as she edged around a puddle. If her tights got wet, she would rather turn around and go straight home rather than spend an evening with her calves turning into icicles beneath the table, no matter who she was supposed to meet at the bar.
But she made it across the street without incident. With one last, mournful glance at the metro station, she pushed into Rita’s. The handle of the door was so cold it bit into her skin, even through her mittens, and for a moment, she regretted ever agreeing to meet Feyre for an evening out.
“It’s not really my scene,” she’d initially demurred when Feyre called during her lunch break, glancing at the clock half-hidden by her monstrous fiddle-leaf fig. Two o’clock, on the dot—a ridiculously late lunch for an overworked art teacher whose day started at seven.
“Your scene?” Feyre’s voice had been incredulous. “Then what is your scene? Your backyard?”
Elain had blushed and looked down at herself then—at the ropes crisscrossing her torso and the freshly cut flowers she had been in the middle of weaving in beside the intricate rigging of knots and loops when her phone rang.
No, her scene was somewhere decidedly more selective of its clientele than a dive like Rita’s, no matter how discreet the bar’s owner was rumored to be. But it had been years since Elain had patronized the BDSM clubs in Rhodes during college with her ex. If a similar establishment existed in Velaris, she didn’t know of it.
But it wasn’t like Feyre knew that about her. She had never dared tell either of her sisters what she and Lucien had gotten up to all those years when she lived in Day… or the lucky break she’d had at turning it into a work-from-home job when she mustered up the nerve to take a few safe-for-work videos of a harness crafted of ropes and flowers that she was particularly proud of and post them TikTok, only to have them go viral.
It wasn’t that she was ashamed of it, of the fact that, no matter how clean she kept her TikTok account, the content on the subscription-only blog where she posted most of her work veered irrefutably into the territory of sex work. On the contrary, in fact; whenever she logged on, she felt something within her swell with pride that she had managed to turn a passion project into a lucrative, if modestly so, career. Her following was large enough—and generous enough with their monthly gifts—that she had been able to purchase a small house on the outskirts of the city when her relationship broke down. She’d even had enough left over to build a little greenhouse in the backyard, so she could try her hand at growing her own flowers.
But Elain knew that if she ever dared to utter the words “kink influencer,” Nesta wouldn’t wait for an explanation; she would start a fight that might level all of Velaris before turning her sights on Lucien for corrupting her little sister. And although Feyre might appreciate the artistry of it, she was far too nosy not to go digging, and Elain felt herself flush from her hairline down to her toes at the thought of anyone she knew “in real life” seeing some of her more risque riggings.
And, yes, maybe she was a little nervous to admit to them both that all the time she spent studying and mastering her backhand swing to win a tennis scholarship to one of the best colleges in Prythian hadn’t quite panned out in the way she expected. Maybe she had wasted two additional years pursuing a master’s degree in a field she ended up loathing when she was supposed to be a lawyer or a teacher like Nesta and Feyre by now.
She was supposed to have a real job, one that came with health insurance benefits and a retirement account. Something where she could flex her wings like the social butterfly she had been in school and shine.
She wasn’t supposed to be a recluse with a vague job as a content creator that made Nesta’s lips purse and Feyre’s eyes go a bit too soft with concern every time it came up in conversation.
Thus, the phone call.
The line crackled as Feyre sighed into the receiver when Elain didn’t answer. “I’m just worried about you. You moved here to be closer to us, but you holed yourself up in that house and we never see you anymore. I know the breakup was hard, but—”
“Feyre, I’m fine.” She was fine… most days. Elain didn’t know how to infuse her voice with enough pep to convince her sister of it, though. “I told you: I’m not holed up here. I’m just working from home.”
“Are you playing from home too?” Feyre asked, sharp as Nesta could be sometimes.
Elain’s spine stiffened, and she didn’t justify Feyre’s attitude with an answer. The first few months after leaving Lucien last year had been hard, yes. They had been together since high school, and adjusting to life without him after a full decade had been more trying than she anticipated. It had been hard enough, some days, to uncurl her limbs and slink out of bed for a few minutes to eat some instant noodles or wash her hair when the sun sank below the horizon.
But the worst had passed months ago. Elain had picked herself up, throwing herself into building her greenhouse before winter hit, and even Nesta had deemed her well enough to stop coming to check on her every morning before heading to work.
Her little sister let out another long, slow breath. “I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you.”
“I know you are. But you don’t need to be. I said I’m fine and I meant it.” Her words were short, clipped, and she regretted them as soon as Feyre made a gentle noise over the phone.
“You’re alone.”
“I am not! I just went to brunch with Nuala and Cerridwen this weekend, and we’re planning to take a girls’ trip to Adriata this summer—”
Nulana and Cerridwen, the twins who worked at the local florist shop where she got all of her flowers while her greenhouse was still a pitiful stack of steel and glass and bags of potting soil, were the best thing that had happened to her since she fled Rhodes.
“Elain!” Feyre exclaimed. “It’s November.”
Ire bit at Elain’s throat, tugging at the tenuous leash keeping it on, and she snapped, “You know, Feyre, we don’t all have to be married with a kid by the time we’re twenty-five to be happy.”
The line went silent, and Elain sagged against her chair. She reached out an idle hand, grasping one of the violets on the table in front of her and pressing her nail against the cut stem until it split.
Married with a baby by twenty-five—that had been her goal once. Once, before Lucien’s world fell apart when his parents split up and a secret father slinked out of the woodwork. He had vowed never to have a child of his own, to never introduce even the possibility of harming one as much as he felt he had been into his life after that, and Elain’s plans had been tipped into the incinerator of his hurt like so much garbage.
“Now I’m the one who’s sorry,” she muttered into the phone. Feyre hummed shortly, and Elain said, “I love Rhys and Nyx with all my heart, you know I do. I’m just… I’m only twenty-seven. I’m not some sad old maid rotting away in this house.”
“Then come out with us tonight. Rhys misses you. Nyx, too.”
“You’re taking Nyx to Rita’s?” Incredulity coated every word, though… Elain could see her wild-hearted sister slipping Nyx into a dark booth quite clearly. The little boy was the only child in their family, and he was so beloved by Feyre’s entire inner circle that Elain knew his presence on one of their nights out would only be celebrated. That he would be pampered and treated like the little adult he sometimes pretended to be, while pride shone out of his every pore simply because he was being included.
“Well, no. He’s staying with Clotho this evening while we’re out. But I’m sure he wouldn’t say no to Aunt Elain dropping by for a hug before bedtime on her way home,” Feyre wheedled. “Come on, Nesta and Cassian are circling each other like sharks and I need you to witness it with me. She keeps trying to drag me into their little spats to defuse the situation, but it’s painfully obvious it’s just foreplay.”
Elain curled the stem of the violet around her little finger. She never could say no to seeing Nyx or Nesta.
A glance out the window revealed the shadows stretching across the snowy rooftops of the city. Darkness fell earlier and earlier every day, and although Elain had once thought the endless winter nights in the north were oppressive, this one seemed to beckon to her now, to beg her not to spend another lonely night puttering about her empty house.
But the thought of going to Rita’s still made something like panic rattle her ribcage.
“Why don’t I just take Nyx tonight? We can go see that new train movie and get some ice cream,” Elain offered.
A muffled bell rang, and Feyre huffed. “We’ve already arranged it with Clotho. Please come with us? Az will be there—you can finally meet him!”
Elain bit her lip.
Az.
Azriel. Her nephew’s godfather, one of her brother-in-law’s two best friends. Her sister’s coworker. It was almost embarrassing that she hadn’t met him yet; he featured in damn near every story Feyre told, and although he was always lingering in the cut-off edges of every photo, he still showed up in every one in three posts Rhys and Cassian made on Instagram.
Not that Elain was keeping count.
Hell, they were even following each other on Instagram, though they had never interacted aside from silently liking one another’s photos. @azriel had popped up in the notifications of her personal account when she posted about a visit with Feyre a few months after Nyx was born. And Elain, curious about who he had to kill to get a first-name-only username, still living hundreds of miles away from her family with Lucien, and desperate for whatever crumbs of her little nephew’s chubby baby cheeks that she could get, had followed back without a single qualm.
And if Elain were a recluse, then Azriel seemed to be a hermit. He only went out when Feyre’s friends dragged him out, it seemed, and only posted when Feyre was the one taking and editing the picture. Elain couldn’t blame him. She doubted any job was nearly as loud or as exhausting as teaching twenty-odd five year olds their ABCs all day long. A little peace and quiet in his own head must be a welcome relief after he went home for the evening.
But on that note… it certainly didn’t hurt that her nephew’s godfather was a drop-dead gorgeous kindergarten teacher—all high cheekbones and sweeping black hair and sweaters stretched over a toned chest and rich, brown skin. Just his passing presence on her feed had enlightened her to the meaning of all those “female gaze” memes floating around the internet.
So Elain did what any self-respecting woman would do when weighing the prospect of meeting a hot man who loved kids and her sister’s husband versus another quiet night at home and said, “Alright. I’ll come. I’ve just got to get some work done before—”
“Yes!” A din of high-pitched voices filled the background on Feyre’s line, and she cawed triumphantly. “Me too! I’ve got a class now. Meet us there at five.”
“Five—?”
“Bye!”
And so Elain had rushed through placing the rest of the flowers in her ropes, filmed the short, playful video about rigging up a macrame holder for small flower pots for indoor plants that she had teased that morning, and edited it in record time.
Shibari really was a fantastically versatile skill, after all, if only one got creative with it.
She could still feel the indentations from the rope on her upper arms when she pushed through the door into Rita’s and busked her hands over her arms, trying to generate some kind of warmth. Her cheeks warmed before the rest of her, and she peered into the happy hour crowd, searching for her family as a small mental war started up between the desire to stay and the growing impulse to run.
But Rhys spotted her before she could come to a decision. His blue-black head of hair swooped down out of nowhere, and he dropped a kiss on her cheek as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. The familiar bulk of him and the comforting salt-and-citrus scent of his cologne drowned out the Top 40 radio station playing over the muffled old speakers and the stale scent of cigarette smoke and beer.
In for seven seconds. Out for four seconds. Elain stole the moment to gather herself, and Rhys, undoubtedly sensing her hesitation in that uncanny way of his, held onto her until she pulled back. When she mustered the courage to look up, his violet eyes were gentle, and when she gave him a tentative smile, he returned it with a handsome grin.
“I’m so glad you could make it, ‘Lain.”
He was so earnest, so polite, that Elain couldn’t help but say, “Me too.”
“Come on, let me take that—” One smooth flick of Rhys’s wrist had Elain turning, and then her blue coat was draped over the crook of her brother-in-law’s arm, her mittens finding a home in his pocket, as he shooed her further into the bar. “—and you go find your sisters. We’re in our usual booth. Cass and I were just grabbing drinks for everyone.”
“Your usual?” It seemed impossible that the massive bulk of Cassian could hide behind anyone, but he slid out from behind Rhys with a small, considerate smile playing on his lips. “Vodka cran?”
Elain let out a shaky breath, and just the thought of a little alcohol in her bloodstream had her nervous limbs loosening. “Yeah. Yeah, why not?”
“Excellent!” Cassian rustled a hand over her hair, clapping her on the shoulder. “Follow the trail of ice and you should find Nes.”
“Oh, Cassian, don’t bait her.”
Cassian made a face and pointed at one of the nearby speakers. It wasn’t nearly loud enough to justify the way he cupped a hand to his ear and shouted, “What? I can’t hear you!”
Elain pressed her lips together to hide her smile, shaking her head at him, and began winding her way through the crush of bodies once he and Rhys disappeared into it, sidestepping a couple already swaying drunkenly to the music. A tattooed hand broke the surface of the small sea between them, and Elain’s shoulders dropped as she quickened her pace, cutting through a small crowd of red-haired men that looked too much like her ex for comfort.
“Elain! Over here!”
Feyre met her halfway, liberally applying her elbows to the crowd. She wrapped Elain in a crushing hug, walking backwards with her arms still wrapped around her sister. “Just a few more steps,” she muttered, as if she could tell that Elain wasn’t comfortable with the press of bodies around her.
They slipped out of the crowd and into the booth in record time, and Feyre ushered Elain in without a backward glance to her husband.
Nesta and Morrigan sat at the table across from her, a plastic tray of grocery store cookies half-hidden by a massive, stylish tote back spread between them. Elain dropped her small purse on the table beside it as Nesta blinked at her, her cool blue eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Hello, everyone. Are these for the table?”
Elain carefully ignored the way Nesta’s mouth thinned into a straight line, sending her elder sister a small smile as she reached for the cookies. She wouldn’t say no to sweets, or to the helpful distraction they provided, but the furtive glances Mor was throwing at the bar seemed to hint that they weren’t quite allowed in Rita’s bar.
But the tray was just out of reach, and her fingertips only grazed its outer rim. A male arm slipped out of the shadows of the booth beside her, a hand mottled with scars that stretched and shone in the low light reaching further than she could, and—
Elain froze.
That hand.
That hand.
She knew that hand.
Like a boiling kettle had been poured over her head, mortified heat sank down from her cheeks to her chest.
Oh, gods.
Ages ago—it had been ages ago that she’d first seen it. The small, independent gallery on the edge of Rhodes’ arts district hadn’t been her scene then either, but she had gone to take a few photos for Feyre during her freshman year. It was supposed to be some kind of proof, she supposed, that life got better after graduating high school and moving out of their father’s run-down cottage in the foothills bordering Velaris.
But when she’d arrived…
When she’d arrived, the gallery had been full of sharp, strange angles and harsh lines and so, so much red and black. Inside, wooden crosses shining with gold leaf took up half the floor, and shredded tapestries had been twisted and woven strange, short benches scattered throughout the floor. One small room had been entirely dark until she walked in and a spotlight shone on her, blinding her to the small crowd waiting to follow her path through the room one-by-one as the attendant at the door instructed.
Lucien had ushered her through the entire exhibit, laughing at the way she turned pink and wide-eyed every time she caught sight of something new, and when they finally got to a wall of black-and-white photographs, Elain had relaxed…
Until she saw the ropes.
So many ropes, wound sensually around nude bodies that, even now, she blushed to think about. Each and every one was knotted into the shape of a hand somehow—a massive, grey hand spanning a woman from shoulder to hip, covering her breasts entirely and leaving the rest of her exposed. A gentle hand of black rope cupping the jaw of a man whose face was etched with ecstasy. A possessive white one, grasping a lush female backside with such force the ropes dug into her soft curves. Dozens of examples, lined up like soldiers in two neat lines.
And then one photograph, the final and smallest photograph on the wall—two viciously scarred hands, knotted and marled and wound in rope like some sort of medical brace. Like some sort of tool that only those hands could make use of, some special device only their owner could make sense of.
She knew then that she would never be able to tell Feyre about this gallery. That she would have to find something else, somewhere else, and never share what was on show at the first exhibit she went to: the famously anonymous Shadowsinger’s shibari art.
By that time, Elain had been reduced to clenching her thighs together to fight off the growing heat between them as she made her way down the line. Every blink of her eyelids was an effort; every breath seemed thick, heavy with some sort of anticipation, and Lucien—
Lucien had gently walked her through every other exhibit, but the photos… Elain had been captivated. Gods, she hadn’t even known what those intricate, intimate ropes meant then. She’d read it the name of the display off of a small placard on the wall next to the photograph of the scarred hands several times before she made any sense of it and hastily jotted it down in her Notes app as her boyfriend’s fingers began to wander, his voice turned teasing in her ear, undoubtedly sensing her interest.
She had gone home and typed that beautiful, strange word into the search bar on her laptop and it had all been over for her.
And now those scarred fingers twitched on top of the table beside the cookies, and Elain lifted her own hand to her mouth.
Beside her, Feyre coughed, the sound awkward and uncomfortable, and the mottled hand slid away into the shadows beneath the table as Elain finally looked up, finally met the shadowed hazel eyes of the man they belonged to, and said to Azriel stupidly,
“Oh, but I always thought your hands were so beautiful.”
And that’s what you call a bait-and-switch.
Anyway, happy Elriel Month! Here’s my small, unhinged contribution Please expect one chapter a week, plus a short epilogue.