brooke⊹˚.♡

Collection of moments masterlist

Azriel x Reader fluff / pre-relationship / mutual pining / drunk reader / protective Azriel (Before the mating bond) After one too many drinks at Rita's, getting you to bed becomes far more difficult than Azriel expected. Between your complete lack of self-preservation and a dangerous tendency to seek him out, the Shadowsinger finds himself fighting a battle he is no longer certain -> Can be read as a standalone. Takes place after "When the Shadowsinger looked away first."

Azriel was starting to lose his mind.

Not because of you, never because of you, but because exhaustion had begun to creep beneath his skin in slow, relentless threads, and because the House of Wind had become a maze of marble, shadows, and your laughter, and because when he had winnowed you home from Rita’s with your arm looped through his and your cheek flushed from wine and dancing, he had naïvely believed that getting you into bed would be the easiest part of the night.

He should have known better.

You had spent the last fifteen minutes running through the sitting room as though sleep were an enemy you had personally sworn to defeat, slipping behind columns, spinning barefoot across the carpets, singing fragments of whatever song had been playing downstairs at Rita’s with no concern whatsoever for the fact that half the Inner Circle might still be awake. The storm outside had softened Velaris into a blur of rain-streaked gold beyond the windows, the fire was burning low in the hearth, and the House itself seemed to have taken your side entirely, dimming the lights into something warmer and dreamier than was remotely helpful while Azriel stood in the middle of the room trying to convince himself that the tightness in his chest was only concern.

“Come on,” he said at last, dragging a hand down his face as you circled one of the columns with a delighted little laugh. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“Noooo,” you called back, the word stretching dramatically through the room as you disappeared behind the marble again.

Azriel lowered his hand slowly and fixed his gaze on the column, his shadows already beginning to curl outward in anticipation. “Y/N.”

The warning in his voice should have been enough. It would have been enough for most people. Spies had paled at that tone. Soldiers had straightened beneath it. Entire rooms had gone quiet when he spoke with that low, dark command threaded through the words.

You only peeked around the column, eyes bright, mouth curved in a wicked little smile that made the last of his patience tremble.

“You go to bed, Az. I told you I’m not tired.”

His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the flushed warmth still clinging to your cheeks, the way your hair had loosened around your face, the faint sway you were clearly pretending was intentional. “Yes,” he said, dry enough that your smile widened, “I can see that.”

You laughed and darted away again before he could reach you, your bare feet nearly silent against the floor, though his shadows followed immediately, sweeping after you like dark ribbons in the firelight. You tried to outrun them, turning sharply across the carpet with a triumphant sound that lasted only until the hem of your dress caught beneath your foot.

The world seemed to tilt out from under you.

Azriel was there before you could fall.

His arms closed around your waist, firm and unthinking, pulling you back against his chest before you could slam face-first into the marble. For one breath, all he felt was the violent punch of fear through his ribs, sharp enough to make his shadows flare. For another, all he felt was you, warm and laughing in his arms as though you had not nearly given him a heart attack.

“And this,” he said, tightening his hold around your waist while he forced his voice to remain even, “is exactly why you should not be trusted.”

You tipped your head back to look at him, your face lit with amusement at the severity of his expression. “I can stand.”

His gaze dipped into yours, and despite himself, despite the storm and the exhaustion and the fact that you were making a complete menace of yourself, the corner of his mouth lifted. “Sure.”

The smirk was a mistake.

You noticed it immediately.

He saw the thought form behind your eyes before you moved, saw the shift in your body as you prepared to twist out of his arms and flee again, but his shadows were faster this time. They curled around your ankles with careful restraint, not trapping so much as reminding, while his hand tightened at your waist and drew you back before you could take more than a single step.

“No, no, no,” he murmured, the words low enough that the laughter in your throat faltered. He leaned closer, not enough to threaten, but enough that you had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. “Where do you think you’re going now, sweetheart?”

Something changed in your face.

It was small. A softening around your mouth, a faint hitch in your breath, a stillness where all that reckless movement had been moments before. Azriel felt it like a blade sliding between his ribs, because he had not meant the word to sound like that, had not meant for his voice to drop that way, had not meant to notice how your eyes went wider and warmer beneath his.

“You are going to be a good girl,” he continued, quieter now, though his grip remained steady when you swayed, “and you are going to do as I say, alright?”

The seriousness in his tone should have irritated you. The teasing beneath it should have made you fight back. Instead, it sent a slow, traitorous heat through your stomach, because whenever Azriel looked at you like this, whenever his voice settled into that low command that seemed to wrap itself around every fragile part of your attention, it became dangerously easy to forget that you had ever wanted to resist him at all.

You opened your mouth, likely to say something clever, or infuriating, or both, but his fingers caught your chin before the words came. Not harshly. Just enough to steady you when your focus drifted, enough to bring your eyes back to his.

“Upstairs,” he commanded.

You stared at him for a moment, your lips parted, your heart suddenly far louder than the rain against the windows. Then you sighed as though granting him a tremendous mercy and slid both arms around his neck. “Fine,” you said, your voice softer now, though the spark in your eyes remained. “Carry me then.”

A shiver ran down his spine.

Azriel should have refused, and he knew it with the same brutal clarity with which he knew the weight of Truth-Teller in his hand. He should have told you that you could walk, that the stairs were not so far, that he was not about to reward your chaos by carrying you to your bedroom like some indulged little queen. He should have done any number of sensible things.

Instead, one arm slid beneath your knees while the other settled around your back, and a moment later your feet left the ground.

Your smile turned victorious at once, unbearably pleased, but it softened almost immediately when you tucked yourself closer against him, cheek brushing his shoulder as though this were where you had intended to end up all along. The laughter that had filled the room only minutes before quieted into something drowsier, more intimate, and Azriel found that he preferred your chaos to your silence if only because silence made him aware of every detail he was trying not to feel: the weight of you in his arms, the warmth of your body through the layers between you, the loose curl of your fingers at the back of his neck, the way your breath skimmed the skin just beneath his jaw whenever you sighed.

The House seemed impossibly still as he carried you toward the stairs.

Too still.

As though the walls themselves were listening.

“You like carrying me,” you mumbled against him halfway up the first flight.

Azriel kept his gaze fixed ahead. “You’re very light.”

“That wasn’t what I said.”

“No,” he replied, carefully adjusting his hold when you shifted in his arms, “it wasn’t.”

Your quiet laugh brushed his neck, and something in his chest tightened so sharply he nearly stopped walking. He had carried you before, had caught you before, had touched you in all the ways friendship and danger allowed, but this felt different in the hush after midnight, with your arms around his neck and your body pliant from wine and exhaustion, trusting him so completely that it made something old and lonely inside him ache.

The stairs seemed endless, and not nearly long enough.

By the time he reached the corridor leading to your room, your eyes had grown heavier, though he could tell you were still awake from the tiny smile playing at your mouth. The faelights glowed low along the walls, catching on the rainwater still clinging to the ends of his hair, and the storm beyond the windows filled the silence with a steady, silver sound. Your bedroom door opened before he reached it, the House once again far too eager to assist.

“I won,” you whispered.

Azriel glanced down at you. “Did you?”

“You carried me.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh as he stepped into your room. “An impressive victory.”

“It is.”

He lowered you onto the edge of the bed with deliberate care, keeping one hand near your shoulder until he was certain you would not immediately tip sideways, but the moment he began to draw back, you caught his wrist. Your fingers wrapped loosely around him, warm and unsteady, and for a second he looked at that touch as though it had physically pinned him in place.

“You have to turn around,” you said.

For half a second, exhaustion dulled his understanding.

Then he saw your hand reaching for the fastening at the back of your dress.

Azriel turned so quickly his wings nearly clipped the bedpost.

Behind him, your soft laugh filled the room, not as wild as it had been downstairs, but warmer, lower, threaded with a sleepy amusement that somehow made the back of his neck heat. He fixed his attention on the opposite wall with the focus of a male attempting to survive an interrogation, taking in the uneven stack of books on the small table beside the chair, the curtains shifting faintly with the storm-cooled air, the pale reflection of rain moving over the dark glass of the window. He tried not to listen to the whisper of fabric behind him. Tried not to imagine the dress sliding from your shoulders, tried not to think of all the ways this room was yours, and therefore more dangerous than any enemy stronghold he had ever entered.

Your room carried traces of you everywhere.

A ribbon abandoned on the chair. A book left open facedown beside your bed. A bracelet near the washbasin. The blanket you always claimed was unnecessary and always dragged over yourself by dawn.

Little pieces of an ordinary life he had no right to want so badly. He had been inside this room before, but always briefly, always with purpose, always with enough distance to pretend the intimacy of it did not touch him. Tonight, standing with his back turned while you changed only a few feet away, that pretense failed him entirely.

Because he wanted to belong here.

The thought arrived without mercy.

Not as a dramatic revelation, not with the force of lightning or the clarity of prophecy, but quietly, almost gently, as though it had been living in him for far longer than he had allowed himself to know. He wanted to know this room in the dark. Wanted to recognize which floorboard creaked near the bed, wanted to know which side you slept on, whether you woke slowly or all at once, whether you pushed the blankets away when the room grew too warm. He wanted the sort of familiarity that could not be stolen in glances.

His shadows gathered near his feet as though sensing the direction of his thoughts.

Azriel closed his eyes.

“You can look now,” you said.

He drew one controlled breath before turning.

You were already on the bed, not tucked beneath the covers as he had expected, but sitting near the center of the mattress in an oversized sleep shirt that slipped loosely over one shoulder, your legs folded beneath you and your hair falling around your face in soft, tangled waves. The bright defiance from downstairs had dimmed into something far more dangerous, something quiet and heavy-lidded and unguarded. The stormlight silvered the edges of you, while the faelights cast a muted gold over the rest, and for a moment Azriel could only stand at the foot of the bed, caught between the instinct to leave and the ache of being asked, wordlessly, to stay.

You did not tease him.

That was what undid him.

No triumphant grin. No clever remark. No accusation that he was afraid, even though you would have been right. You only watched him, your gaze resting on his face with a stillness that felt nothing like the wine-driven chaos from before. He could have handled another joke. He could have argued with you. He could have deflected, tucked the blankets around you, made some dry comment about how miserable you would be in the morning. But your silence left him nowhere to go.

Then, slowly, as though the movement required more concentration than it should have, you lifted one finger and crooked it toward yourself.

Come here.

Azriel went still.

The gesture was not seductive, not really. Not polished enough for that, not deliberate in the way it might have been had you been fully sober and fully aware of the devastation you were leaving in your wake. It was softer than that. Sleepier. Almost innocent, and somehow worse for it.

“No,” he said, though the word came out quieter than he intended.

Your brows pulled together, not hurt, only confused, and after a moment you did it again. The same small curl of your finger. The same silent command. The same impossible invitation.

“Azriel.”

His name, spoken like that, nearly brought him to his knees.

He should have left. He knew that. He knew it with brutal certainty as the rain blurred the windows behind him and his shadows pressed close to his wings, as though even they were bracing for the mistake he was about to make. He should have said goodnight and closed the door. He should have spared you whatever this room was becoming.

Instead, he crossed to you.

Not quickly. Not eagerly. Slowly enough that he could still pretend he was making a rational choice, that he was only coming closer because you were tired and might try to climb out of bed again if he refused. Slowly enough that every step felt like another line crossed in the dark. When he lowered himself onto the edge of the mattress, he left space between you, one hand resting on the blanket, his wings held carefully behind him.

“I came over,” he said softly, trying to make his voice lighter than the room felt. “Now sleep.”

You did not smile.

The silence stretched.

It was astonishing, he thought distantly, how much more powerful your quiet could be than your laughter. Downstairs, you had filled every corner of the House with movement and sound, but here, with your eyes fixed on him and your hands resting uselessly in your lap, you seemed to pull the whole room inward until there was no world beyond the bed, the rain, the careful distance he had placed between your bodies.

He tried once more to break it before it deepened past the point of return.

“Cassian will be unbearable tomorrow when he hears about the singing,” he murmured. “If he mentions the dancing, I’ll deny seeing anything.”

A faint curve touched your mouth, but it was not the one he had been aiming for. It faded almost immediately.

“Why do you do that?”

Azriel’s hand stilled against the blanket. “Do what?”

“Make everything softer when I ask for something real.”

The question moved through him slowly, finding places his armor did not cover. For a moment, he almost pretended he did not understand. It would have been easy. You were tired. You had been drinking. He could have smiled and told you that you were not making sense, then tucked you beneath the blankets and left before the words between you became something neither of you could set aside in the morning. But you were looking at him with such open, aching clarity that the lie felt cruel before it even reached his tongue.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“I know.”

The answer was quiet.

Not defensive. Not dismissive.

Simply true.

You moved closer before he could respond, slowly, carefully, as though the room had become water and you were pushing your way through it. Your knees brushed his thigh, and his breath went still in his chest. Your hand came to his shoulder first, then slid to the back of his neck with a gentleness that felt far more intimate than boldness would have.

He could have stopped you at any moment. He should have. But every instinct to protect you warred violently against the fact that you were reaching for him, and he had spent so long not being reached for with any softness that, for one terrible second, he simply let himself have the weight of your hand against his skin.

Then you climbed into his lap.

Awkwardly, because you were tired and unsteady, and because the blankets twisted beneath your knees, but the effect was devastating all the same. Azriel’s hands lifted instinctively, hovering at your sides, uncertain whether holding you would be the greater sin or letting you fall. When you swayed, the decision made itself. His arms wrapped around your waist and drew you securely against him, careful and firm, nothing more than necessary.

At least, that was what he told himself.

You sighed the moment he held you.

The sound went through him like a wound.

Your knees rested on either side of his hips, your hands warm at the back of his neck, your body fitted against his with a trust that made his restraint feel suddenly fragile. He had imagined wanting before, had hated himself for it, had turned away from the thought of you in countless quiet moments when his mind wandered where it should not. But imagination had been nothing compared to the reality of you settling into his lap with your eyes heavy and your face bare of every defense you usually carried.

Your forehead touched his.

Azriel stopped pretending he was unaffected.

He did not move, did not speak, did not so much as breathe deeply enough to shift you against him, but every part of him became aware. The warmth of your thighs bracketing his. The slight tremble in your fingers where they touched his neck. The softness of your breath against his mouth. The tiny space between your lips and his, no distance at all and yet somehow the only thing keeping him from becoming the sort of male who took what he wanted simply because it was offered in the dark.

You tilted your face.

Only a little.

It was enough.

His body knew before his mind allowed the thought to form. He felt the change in you, the quiet decision, the vulnerable courage wine had given you and morning might steal away. You moved slowly, uncertainly, your mouth nearing his with a softness that nearly ended him.

Azriel wanted.

The truth was so sharp it almost hurt.

He wanted with a force that hollowed out every sensible thought, wanted in a way that had nothing clean or controlled about it. He wanted to close that final inch and feel whether you sighed into his mouth the way you had sighed into his arms. Wanted to know if your hands would tighten at his neck. Wanted to stop being careful for once in his long, miserable life and let himself have the thing he had been quietly, foolishly starving for.

His hand slid to the back of your neck.

Gentle.

Firm.

Stopping you.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

You stilled.

Your lips remained close enough that one more breath might have ruined him.

Your eyes opened slowly, confused and soft and far too trusting.

Azriel closed his own for a heartbeat because looking at you made refusal feel like violence. When he opened them again, he kept his hand at the back of your neck, thumb resting lightly beneath your ear, grounding both of you as much as stopping you.

“You’re drunk,” he said, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be. “Not like this.”

The words entered the room and changed it.

Not shattering anything. Not truly.

But settling over you both with the heavy quiet of something almost lost before it could begin.

For one painful second, your face shifted, and Azriel thought he had hurt you. Your mouth softened, your eyes lowering not in shame but in disappointment so tired and vulnerable that his arms tightened before he could stop them.

He wanted to apologize. Wanted to tell you that every selfish part of him was screaming. Wanted you to understand that refusing you was not rejection, that it was the only honorable thing left in him.

“I know,” you whispered.

The admission was so small that it nearly broke him.

His thumb moved once against the back of your neck. “Tomorrow,” he said, though he did not know if he was promising you or begging himself. “If you still want this tomorrow, when the wine is gone and you can look at me and know exactly what you’re asking for, then I’ll listen.”

You searched his face for a long moment, and in the pale glow of the storm, Azriel saw too much pass through your eyes. Sleep. Want. Fear. A sadness he hated because he recognized, with sudden clarity, that it had been there long before tonight.

“Will you run?” you asked.

The question was barely more than a breath.

Azriel felt it land in the center of his chest.

There was no drunkenness in it now. No teasing, no reckless edge, no playful challenge for him to deflect. It was not about the kiss. Not really. It was about every time he had stepped away when your hand brushed his. Every time he had looked at your mouth and then turned his face toward the window. Every time your laughter softened into something quieter and he answered with silence because silence was safer than hope. You were asking about all of it. About months of almosts and not-quites, about the distance he kept rebuilding each time you came close enough to touch the part of him that still believed tenderness always came with a blade hidden somewhere inside it.

He wanted to tell you that running had never felt like running when he did it.

It had felt like protecting you.

It had felt like protecting himself.

It had felt like standing very still while the world offered him something he had no idea how to hold without breaking.

But you were waiting, and your fingers had curled weakly into the collar of his shirt, and for once Azriel could not bear to give you another careful answer.

“No,” he said.

Your eyes remained on his.

“You always do.”

There was no accusation in your voice.

That made it worse.

Azriel looked at you for a long time. He thought of telling you that you were wrong, but the lie would have been too cruel when both of you knew the truth. He had run. Not dramatically, not visibly, but in every way that mattered. He had fled into duty, into silence, into shadows, into the safety of being needed but never claimed. He had run because wanting you had become one of the few things in his life that frightened him more than loss.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist.

“Not tomorrow,” he said.

It was not enough.

He knew it was not enough.

But it was all he could give you while you sat in his lap with wine still in your blood and sleep pulling at your eyes, all he could offer without turning this moment into something you might regret or something he would never forgive himself for wanting too badly.

For a while, you only looked at him. Then the tension seemed to leave you all at once, your body surrendering with heartbreaking suddenness to the exhaustion it had been fighting since you left Rita’s. You lowered your head, not toward his mouth this time, but into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, and Azriel held you as your breathing slowly began to even out against his skin.

He told himself he would lay you down in a moment.

The moment passed.

Then another.

When he finally shifted, intending to ease you beneath the blankets properly, your arms tightened around him and a small sound of protest left you.

“I’m just putting you to bed,” he murmured.

“Don’t go.”

His chest ached.

“I won’t go far.”

“Stay.”

The word was soft with sleep, but it held him more completely than any command ever had.

Azriel looked toward the rain-streaked windows, toward the blurred lights of Velaris beyond them, toward the storm that had wrapped the city and this room in a hush that felt almost unreal. Every sensible part of him gathered its arguments. Morning would come. You might remember too much, or not enough. He would wake beside you with his restraint frayed to nothing and have to pretend that lying in your bed had not changed him.

Staying was dangerous. Leaving was wise.

Then you shifted closer, your cheek pressing into his shoulder, your hand still curled loosely in his shirt as though even in half-sleep you needed proof he was there.

The arguments died quietly.

“All right,” he murmured.

It took longer than it should have to get you beneath the blankets, mostly because you refused to release him entirely and partly because Azriel’s hands were not as steady as he wished when he brushed the hair back from your face.

He tucked the blanket around your shoulders, adjusted the pillow beneath your head, and told himself that this was enough, that he had done what you asked, that he could sit in the chair until you slept and leave before dawn.

But when he tried to draw away, your fingers found his again.

Not strong enough to hold him.

Strong enough to ask.

Azriel stood there for a moment in silence, looking down at your hand around his, and then he removed his boots, unfastened the weapons that made lying down impossible, and settled carefully on top of the blankets beside you. He left space at first, a careful, respectful distance that might have survived had you been any more awake.

You turned toward him immediately.

Half-asleep, entirely trusting, you tucked yourself beneath his arm and rested your head against his chest as though his restraint had been nothing more than an inconvenience to be ignored. Azriel stared at the ceiling while the House dimmed the faelights to a soft, forgiving glow, his entire body held in that impossible space between torment and peace.

For a long while, he did not move.

Then, slowly, when your breathing had deepened and your hand had gone slack against his shirt, he let his arm settle around you.

Lightly at first.

Then with more certainty when you sighed in your sleep and pressed closer.

His shadows returned after that, tentative and quiet, drifting over the blankets in thin ribbons of darkness. One brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. Another curled near your hand as though guarding it. Azriel did not stop them.

The storm continued beyond the windows, soft and steady, turning the world outside to silver. The city below glittered faintly through the rain. Your room smelled of lavender and parchment and the faint trace of wine still lingering in your hair, and Azriel lay awake inside the life he had no right to imagine for himself, listening to you breathe.

He should have left.

He knew that.

Instead, he remained exactly where he was, one arm around you, your hand still curled loosely in the fabric of his shirt as though some part of you feared waking to find him gone.

Perhaps that was what lingered most.

Not the almost-kiss.

Not the warmth of you against him.

Not even the unbearable knowledge that if you had been sober, if this had been any other night, he did not know whether he would have found the strength to stop you.

It was the question.

Will you run?

The words had settled somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.

Because you had not been asking about tonight.

You had been asking about every other time.

Every moment he had stepped back.

Every feeling he had buried.

Every door he had quietly closed before either of you could walk through it.

Azriel lowered his head slightly, his gaze settling on the crown of your hair.

Tomorrow.

The promise felt terrifying in a way battlefields never had.

Tomorrow, you would wake up.

Tomorrow, you would remember.

Tomorrow, he would no longer have wine or exhaustion or midnight shadows to hide behind.

And yet, for the first time in a very long while, the thought did not make him retreat.

His hand moved once through your hair.

Gentle.

Careful.

As though touching something precious.

"Tomorrow," he murmured into the darkness.

Then, sometime before dawn, exhaustion finally claimed him too, his cheek resting lightly against your hair while your hand remained curled in his shirt, neither of you letting go.

---

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

Taglist:

Pairing - Azriel x reader

Word count - 3.1k

Warnings - None

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It has always been you.

Those were the words Azriel had said on the street under the stars, his hand wrapped around mine, his voice so quiet I almost hadn't heard it.

Those were also the words he had meant.

Three weeks had passed since that night, and somewhere in those three weeks, my entire life had changed without me even realising when it happened. 

Azriel had quietly, casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, moved us into a small cottage he owned on the quieter edge of Velaris.

He hadn't made a big announcement about it. He hadn't asked in some grand, dramatic way. 

He had just said, "I have somewhere I think you'd like better," and the next thing I knew, we were standing in front of a small stone cottage with ivy crawling up the walls and smoke curling from the chimney.

I had loved it immediately.

characters: baelor targaryen, maekar targaryen, daeron targaryen, aerion targaryen, valarr targaryen

warnings: 18+ only, nsfw, female gratification, penetration, cowgirl, missionary, spanking, doggy, spoon

authors note: req by @wooceanic <3 I'm sorry this took so long!!!!!

◜ with modern ! 𝒱alarr Targaryen

◟ content ⸝⸝ straight to smut, exhibitionism? ... fucking in a car , super short  !  ୧ it‘s so sad we didn’t see more of him :(

"S' so warm ..." Evening Summer Heat was still that ― Summer Heat. So Yes , it is still warm , uncomfortably so , but your fingers tightly fisting his hair did little to nothing to diminish the heat he was currently feeling ... , if anything it only intensified.

Valarr has you right on his lap inside his Mustang ― slick skin pressed to his very own , warm palms guiding your hips into a comfortable , slow , rhythm that has your heated breath ghost against his lips. And even with the windows wide open , the air inside was almost worse than outside ― humid and heady , with the faint scent of lake water and sunscreen , and want. Valarr groans softly when your hips do that thing.

When your thighs press a little more into the side of his legs, and it's like a sputter almost. Means you're either getting tired of the motion , or you're grinding into a spot that just feels so good ( the latter being much more likely )

It has him smile faintly , adjusting his body underneath yours so it is a bit easier to reach ...

Your boyfriend hasn't even bothered to undress you all the way. His breeches were down to his ankles , your sundress bunched to your hips , panties clinging onto one foot only , haphazardly shoved down your legs and forgotten the moment his flushed tip had pressed right in. And with the way he is partly undressed beneath you , the underside of his legs stick to hot leather seats , uncomfortably so , slick thighs rubbed raw if it weren't for him holding you down by how frantic you're actually trying to ride him.

"Slow down," he chides softly. But by the way you're trying to chase away whatever frustration or craving had led to this , he knows you're hardly listening. So his rough palms get a bit more firm against your hips , has you slow down rather you like or not. "Come on Sweetheart , you'll get a heatstroke if you keep that up..." He attentively pushes some loose strands away from your face , gently blowing cool air against warm skin before carefully directing your body against his again.

Slow yet firm.

His nose nudges yours , mouth parting when he feels you lean closer , and his tongue brushes into your mouth , kissing you with a fresh kind of heat. Intimate and hungry.

"Val ..." He feels you clench around him , and Gods if it isn't the sweetest you've ever muttered his name. His fingers dig a bit deeper into plush skin , back straightening as he grinds upwards , instead of pulling you against him. And when his mouth parts from yours , his lips shift to the side of your neck , pressing gentle kisses that feel more like caresses than anything ...

Your whole body locks up when he presses forward , sensitive tip prodding just so against your cervix that has you breathless for a second ― coiled ― and then just hot pleasure when he doesn't bottom out at all , but angles your body just right. It washes over you in waves , making your forehead bump into his with shuddering breaths.

And Valarr isn't far behind , hips grinding into yours once , twice ... spilling into you like it's the only place he really belongs. His mouth brushes your forehead when he comes with a tight groan , letting his eyes rest as you're calmly riding out your height together.

Guess after that you'll just have to go for another swim ...

The Night Court assumes Eris Vanserra’s mate is nothing more than decoration at his side.

They learn very quickly that some females do not need to raise their voice to remind a room exactly where power sits.

Requested by @alexof90s — I hope this is close to what you were picturing! (Once again I didn't proof read this at all so feel free to let me know if there are any spelling errors!)

Moments (Eris x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: Moments with Eris.

Authors Note: I had a few requests for Eris’s version so here it is. Pre-established relationship below. Scenes aren’t in any particular order, but are simply inspired by different moments. No warnings below.

The moment the mating bond snapped into place and you crossed the threshold of the Forest House as Eris’s mate, the smokehounds decided something very important.

You were theirs.

Not in the way Eris was theirs — commander, master, High Lord.

No.

You were precious.

The first time you knelt to greet them, expecting wary sniffs and territorial growls, you were instead nearly bowled over by a wall of smoke and muscle. Massive heads shoved beneath your hands. Warm, dark eyes blinking up at you with startling gentleness.

Eris had stood there, stunned.

“They don’t usually do that,” he murmured.

One hound had promptly leaned its entire weight against your legs as if proving a point.

From that day forward, you were never alone.

If you walked the corridors, at least two shadows followed.

If you read by the hearth, one enormous body would curl at your feet while another rested its heavy head in your lap, rumbling softly when you scratched behind its ears.

If you so much as sighed in your sleep, a head would pop up from its resting place to check you were at peace.

Eris loved it.

Truly.

When duty pulled him from you — border disputes, court politics, Beron’s lingering messes — he left knowing that nothing short of an army would reach you without going through fangs first.

“You’re safer than I am,” he once told you dryly, watching three hounds rearrange themselves around your chair like sentinels.

But there were…downsides.

Like the fact that they had very strong opinions about sleeping arrangements.

Eris would return late, exhausted, craving nothing more than to bury himself beside you — only to find every available inch of mattress occupied by smoke and smouldering fur.

“They are in my spot,” he would say flatly.

You, barely visible beneath a tangle of limbs and blankets, would shrug. “They were here first.”

One hound would open a single eye at him in a lazy challenge.

He refused to admit he sometimes lost that battle.

Then there were the incidents.

Two of the hounds had decided to race each other down the corridor the exact moment you stepped out of a room. You’d barely see the blur of movement before you were on the floor, wrist twisted painfully beneath you.

The howl that followed had shaken the rafters.

Not from you.

From them.

They’d circled you immediately, whining, pacing, nudging you gently with their noses as if trying to fix what they’d done. One had even pressed its forehead to your shoulder in apology.

Eris had arrived seconds later, fire already flaring, only to find you half-laughing through the sting while two enormous beasts looked ready to exile themselves in shame.

“They didn’t mean to,” you insisted while he inspected your swelling wrist.

“I know,” he sighed, though he shot them a pointed look. “You nearly injured my mate.”

They hadn’t left your side for three days after that, not even when you went to the bathroom.

And then there was the one time with the sentry.

A young, overzealous fool, who grabbed your wrist during an argument — not roughly, but enough.

The reaction has been instantaneous.

Ferocious snarls.

A flash of teeth.

The sentry was on the ground before he could even register the mistake, two smokehounds practically mauling him while another bolted from the room in a streak of shadow.

Eris had felt the alarm through the bond before the hound even reached him.

By the time he arrived, the message was clear to every other fae in the Autumn Court.

Do. Not. Touch.

You’d been more shaken than hurt, and Eris had gone frighteningly still in a way that made even the hounds obey the snap of his fingers instantly to allow their master to enact his own punishment.

Afterward, when everything was settled, he’d found you seated on the floor with all three beasts pressed against you like oversized guards.

“They protected me,” you’d murmured softly.

“Of course they did,” he’d replied. “They love you.”

And that was the thing.

For all his mild exasperation — for the stolen spaces, they way they followed you around like smouldering ducklings — he loved that you loved them.

Loved that when he wasn’t there, you weren’t alone.

Loved that you laughed when one nudged a book from your hands demanding attention.

Loved the sight of you framed in firelight, a hound’s head resting trustingly on your thighs.

Sometimes, late at night, when he finally managed to edge one aside and slide into bed beside you, he’d press a quiet kiss to your temple and murmur:

“I’m glad they love you, otherwise I’d have to ship you back to where you came from.”

There was a well timed growl before one shifted closer, half squeezing Eris half off the mattress.

You snorted.

“I’d like to see you try.”

He’d grumble.

But he’d relent and stay.

Because they weren’t just his hounds anymore.

They were yours too.

And the way your smile softened when they curled around you?

That alone made every inch of stolen mattress worth it.

The House of Wind feels different.

Quieter.

Warmer in a way that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.

You’re seated on one of the plush sofas, carefully cradling Nyx in your arms while Feyre sits nearby with that luminous, exhausted new-mother glow. The baby is still impossibly small, despite being a few months old now, wrapped in dark fabric, tiny wings twitching in his sleep.

You were besotted.

Across the room, Rhysand stands beside Eris, both of them pretending not to stare.

Eris has seen battlefields without blinking.

He has faced Beron’s cruelty without flinching.

But this?

This makes him unnervingly still.

You adjust Nyx gently, murmuring something soft and instinctive. The baby’s hand curls around your finger and you beam at Feyre’s praise at how natural you are with him.

And Eris’s breath catches.

He doesn’t miss the way your expression changes — how your features soften into something almost reverent. Protective. Fierce in a quiet way.

Rhys notices it too.

“Careful,” Rhys murmurs, arms crossed, violet eyes gleaming faintly. “It appears your wife may be thinking of hiding my son under her cloak before she leaves.”

Eris arches an eyebrow. “It appears that way.”

Rhys smirks. “Ever thought about having any of your own?”

“No.”

The sudden, almost harsh, reply from Eris catches Rhys by surprise. He doesn’t miss the underlying tension however as Eris continues to watch you — regret perhaps, longing, apprehension.

After a moment, Rhys says quietly. “You’d be surprised what you’re capable of. When it’s yours.”

Eris doesn’t look at him. “You presume much.”

“Do I?” Rhys’s tone is mild. “You’re not Beron.”

The name lands like a stone dropped into deep water.

Eris’s jaw tightens — but he doesn’t snap.

Instead, he keeps watching you.

Watching the way you instinctively shift Nyx into a more comfortable position when he stirs.

Watching the way you smile as you carefully brush your fingers through the dark hair on top of his head.

Watching the warmth in your eyes.

“I thought,” Eris says after a long pause, voice lower than usual, “that I would never want one.”

Rhys hums. “And now?”

Eris is silent.

Because now…he isn’t imagining a child raised in fear, as he was.

He’s imagining you in the Forest House, sunlight through the autumn leaves, smokehounds sprawled like loyal guardians by your feet.

He’s imagining small footsteps in those halls.

He’s imagining breaking a cycle instead of repeating it.

“I think,” Eris admits quietly, “it depends on who the mother is.”

Rhys’s smirk turns softer. “It usually does.”

—

Later, you reluctantly hand Nyx back to Feyre. Eris is quieter than usual as you say your goodbyes.

Back in your guest chambers, you shrug off your cloak, smiling faintly. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

Eris doesn’t answer immediately.

He’s watching you instead.

“Yes,” he says finally. “He is.”

You pause, noticing something different in his tone. “What is it?”

He steps closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear — a touch more thoughtful than teasing.

“I’ve been reconsidering something,” he says.

“Oh?” You reply lightly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Possibly.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Eris.”

He exhales once — steadying.

“For a long time,” he begins carefully, “I thought I would be a poor father.”

You blink.

That’s not how you expected this conversation to go.

“You wouldn’t,” you say immediately.

He huffs a quiet, humourless breath. “Beron made me believe otherwise.”

Your expression softens. “You are nothing like him.”

He searches your face, as if testing the truth of it.

“And if I were?” He asks.

“Then I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I believed that.”

The certainty in your voice stills him.

A beat passes.

Then, casually — far too casually — he says:

“Shall we make one?”

You choke.

“WHAT?”

Eris doesn’t have the decency to look apologetic. If anything, he looks amused at your spluttering.

For as long as you’d known him, you knew Eris had complicated feelings about children. It was something that you had never asked or pushed him about, content to spend the rest of your days just the two of you if that’s what he wanted.

“You’re insufferable,” you wheeze, coughing into your hand. “You cannot just — you cannot phrase it like that!”

He tilts his head. “How would you prefer I phrase it? Let’s fuck like bunnies until—“

“No!” You gasped, smothering the rest of his sentence with your hand. “Perhaps something less barbaric.”

His lips twitch as you pull your hand away.

He steps closer, hands settling at your waist, this time with unmistakable tenderness.

“I meant,” he says more softly, firelight dancing softly behind his amber eyes, “that I would like to try. With you. If you wished it.”

Your indignation melts into something breathless.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

“Terrifyingly.”

Emotion flickers across your face — surprise, warmth, hope.

“You’d be a wonderful father,” you murmur.

He brushes his forehead against yours. “Only if they inherit your patience.”

You laugh quietly. “I have no patience for you thinking less of yourself.”

He considers that.

Then smirks. “Very well. But if they start commanding smokehounds before they can walk, that’ll be your fault.”

You smile, heart full, hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

“I don’t know about that, their father is very bossy.”

Eris narrows his eyes at you in a playful glare. “Oh, yeah? Get on the bed then, Mrs Vanserra.”

You almost choked again.

“Now? Eris, we can’t, this is Rhys and Feyre’s home—“

“Of course we can,” he says, beginning to walk you back in the direction of the large bed. “I see no reason for us to delay.”

“Eris Vanserra,” you basically shriek as the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall down on the bed.

He leers over you, smug warmth curling around you both. “Are you concerned about the proximity of Rhysand’s bedroom?”

“Yes!”

He considers that, then murmurs, “I’m sure the High Lord of the Night Court has heard worse.”

You swat his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist gently, bringing your knuckles to his lips.

“I am serious,” he says again — softer this time. “About wanting this. About wanting it with you.”

The humour drains just enough to let hit truth shine through.

Your expression shifts.

“You’re really ready?” You whisper.

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’m ready to stop letting Beron dictate what I believe I’m capable of, especially if you believe in me.”

That steals your breath far more than his earlier boldness.

You slide your hands up his shoulders. “We’ll talk about it properly,” you say gently. “When we’re home. In our own court. In our own bed.”

His eyes darken slightly at the last part.

“Very well,” he concedes.

Then, after a beat, he adds lightly, “We need to think of an emergency to get us back to Autumn.”

You snort. “You’re so impatient.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, “the Mother chose you for me.”

You can’t argue with that.

Though as he pulls you closer, you hiss under your breath, “If Rhys or Feyre hear so much as a creak—“

Eris smiles against your lips, nipping them playfully.

“Then perhaps they should invest in thicker walls.”

The dream always starts the same.

Cold stone. Smoke thick in the air. Beron’s voice — low, disappointed, venomous.

He’s younger in the dream. Smaller. Less lean. Forced to kneel.

The first blow lands.

He doesn’t make a sound.

The second, third and fourth one, he grits his teeth to keep the sounds at bay.

Fire lashes his back, across his shoulders. The smell of burning fabric and skin punctuates his nose.

Beron circles him slowly. “Weakness,” his father says. “You reek of it.”

Eris says nothing — it was always better to say nothing.

“Let me show you what weakness does to a man.”

The doors open.

The guards drag someone in.

You.

Your wrists are bound. Your face and mouth bloody where you’ve clearly fought them.

A wrecked sound slips past Eris’s lips before he can help it.

He tries to move — to stand, to reach you, to protect you — but he is powerless.

Beron’s smile shifts.

“So this,” his father murmurs, stepping towards you, “is what you thought you could hide from me.”

“No—“ Eris chokes out.

Beron lifts a hand.

Flame curls around his fingers.

“Love makes you weak.”

The fire strikes you.

You scream—

Eris bolts upright in bed.

Your scream is still ringing in his ears.

For one horrible second, he doesn’t know where he is. His skin is damp with sweat, chest heaving, power crackling dangerously close to the surface.

He turns—

The space beside him is empty.

Cold.

The world narrows.

“—No.”

He’s out of bed before the thought finishes forming, bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the side table. Panic roars through him, primal and violent.

The bond is there — but fear distorts everything. Makes it distant and wrong. It clouds clear thinking.

He strides out of the bedroom, fire flaring instinctively along his arms.

He finds you immediately.

Curled up on the sofa near the low-burning hearth, wrapped in a blanket, a book resting in your open lap, a cup of tea on the table beside you.

Very much alive.

Very much unharmed.

You look up, startled at the sudden rush of heat and movement. “Eris?”

He doesn’t answer.

He crosses the room in long strides and drops to his knees in front of you like a man who has just outrun death itself.

You blink, confused and also concerned — and his hands are on you.

Checking.

Your arms. Your face. Your shoulders.

“Eris—“ you say again, softer now. You see the wildness in his eyes, the terror, and you understand.

Without a word, he gathers you up.

He lifts you straight off the sofa and into his chest like you weigh nothing at all.

You gasp faintly at the sudden movement, arms automatically winding around his neck.

He sits back down with you in his lap, one hand firm at the back of your head, pressing you against him as if he needs to feel you as close as possible to believe it’s real.

His breathing is still uneven.

“Hey,” you murmur gently, fingers reaching to brush into his hair. “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just holds you tighter.

After a long moment, his voice comes — rougher than you’ve heard in a while.

“I couldn’t find you.”

Your heart squeezes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you explain softly, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here.”

His jaw tightens at that —not in anger at you, but at the memory still clinging to him.

“I thought…” he swallows. “I thought he had you.”

You still.

“Beron?”

He nods once against your shoulder.

“It was him,” he says quietly. “It started how it always does, but this time they dragged you in. And he—“

His hand flexes involuntarily against your back.

You shift in his lap so you can see his face properly. There’s no mask right now. No court composure. Only lingering horror.

“It was just a dream,” you say gently.

“I know.”

His eyes avoid yours.

You cradle his face between your hands. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “He will never touch me.”

His eyes flicker — some part of him wanting to argue that nothing is impossible.

So you press your forehead to his.

“And even if he tried,” you add softly, “you’re not that powerless boy anymore.”

Something in him eases at that.

Not fully.

But enough for now.

After a while, his breathing finally steadies and his fire dims back to a low warmth instead of a threat. He’s comforted by the feel of your heartbeat against his chest and the soft scratches your fingers make against his scalp.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

He nods.

Without a word, he stands again — still holding you — as if the thought of you walking alone for a few seconds is unacceptable.

You smile faintly against his shoulder as he carries you back into your bedroom.

When he lays you down this time, he doesn’t leave an inch of space. One arm under your neck. The other wrapped securely around your waist. Your leg hooked over his.

Protective.

Anchoring.

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

“I’m here,” you murmur sleepily.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I know,” he replies.

And this time, when sleep takes him again, it’s quieter and peaceful.

Because you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Eris’s office in the Forest House is unusually quiet.

Which means one thing.

Eris is stressed.

You can tell by the why he’s hunched over his desk, papers scattered everywhere, quill scratching aggressively across parchment like the ink has personally offended him.

His advisors shoot you a look as they stand huddled by the door, clearly nervous to disturb him or face his wrath.

But you were his wife, his mate — and that’s why they had summoned you.

If there was anyone who could pry him from his mood, it was you.

So you did what you always do when the High Lord of Autumn looks like he might burn half the court down out of irritation.

You baked.

A chocolate cake, specifically. Rich, warm, slightly molten in the centre — easily one of your best yet.

You cut him a generous slice, place it carefully on a plate, and walk into his office with the kind of optimism only someone carrying cake possesses.

“Eris?” You say gently.

He doesn’t look up.

“Mm.”

“I brought you something.”

Still writing, he waves a distracted hand. “Leave it.”

You step closer and set the plate down near his elbow. “It’s cake, one of your favourites.”

That gets a reaction.

Just not the one you hoped for.

“I’m busy,” he says sharply, eyes still on the parchment. “Not now.”

The words snap through the room before he even realises how harsh they sounded.

Silence settles for a second.

You blink.

A single eyebrow raises.

You shrug, unwilling to let Eris’s temper dampen your spirits.

“Okay.”

You pick up the plate again, walk around his desk, and sit directly across from him.

Eris doesn’t notice at first.

He’s still scribbling furiously until—

A soft moan rings out.

“Mmm.”

He ignores it.

Then it happens again.

“Mmm—oh wow.”

His quill slows.

Across the desk, you take another bite of cake, closing your eyes dramatically.

“Oh gods,” you sigh happily, “that is so good.”

Eris’s eyes flick up.

You’re leaning back in your chair, savouring the bite like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Mmm,” you hum again, licking some chocolate from your fork. “I outdid myself.”

His eyes narrow.

You ditch the fork, instead using your finger to gather some chocolate frosting from the edge of the plate and licking it off.

Slowly, sensually, your finger making a small popping noise as your lips enclose around it. Your head tips back slightly as you let out an entirely unnecessary, exaggerated sound of appreciation.

“Mmm—“

The quill snaps.

You look up innocently.

Eris is staring at you now.

Really staring.

“What,” he says slowly, “are you doing?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

You take another bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“Mmm—oh, Eris,” you murmur. “—so good.”

His jaw tightens.

“Are you finished?” He asks.

“With the cake?” You say thoughtfully, “No, I’m savouring it.”

You drag your finger through the frosting again.

Eris watches the movement like it’s personally offending him.

“You’re making those sounds on purpose.”

You widen your eyes. “What sounds?”

Right on que, you lick your finger.

“Mmm.”

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, crossing his arms.

“You’re insufferable.”

You shrug slightly. “You said you didn’t want any.”

“I said not now.”

“Well,” you say, swirling your fork around the plate, “now it’s mine.”

Another bite.

Another pleased sound.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

Then the cake.

Then back again.

You can practically see the moment his patience snaps.

“Bring the cake to the bedroom.”

You pause mid-bite.

“…What?”

Eris stands slowly from his chair, expression dark with something far more dangerous than stress now.

“I believe,” he says calmly, “you were trying to get my attention.”

You swallow. “Maybe.”

“Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Now you’ve got it.”

You lean back in your chair. “Are you done being grumpy?”

“Oh, I’m very done.”

You glance at the cake. “What if I want to finish it here?”

Eris walks around the desk with slow, predatory steps.

When he stops in front of you, he gently takes the plate from your fingers and sets it aside.

Then he leans down, voice low near your ear.

“I don’t want to get chocolate all over my desk.”

Your breath catches.

“You can keep making those sounds, just not over cake.”

Your face warms instantly, your body automatically tensing.

He straightens, smirking at the flushed look on your face.

“Bedroom. Cake. Now,” he says.

Mission accomplished.

The balcony on the House of Wind glows with soft laternlight, the air humming with anticipation as guests gather for Starfall.

You stood near the railing, glass of wine in your hands, watching the sky deepen into a velvety blue that promises the first stars will be falling soon.

Somewhere behind you, Eris is trapped in a conversation with emissaries from the Winter Court — also invited alongside Autumn to the annual Night Court celebration.

Diplomacy, allies, and the sort of polite posturing that comes with being the mate of the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn Court, was not your scene.

So you slipped away for a moment of quiet.

A mistake, apparently.

“Enjoying the view?”

You turn to find a very tall, broad Illyrian warrior leaning casually against the railing next to you, wings folded behind him. His grin is charming, confident, and entirely too familiar for someone you’ve never met.

Cassian, you believe.

“Very much,” you reply politely.

He steps closer, glancing up at the sky and then back to you. “First Starfall?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little,” he says with a laugh. “Most people here pretend they’ve seen it a hundred times.”

You smile despite yourself.

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty,” Cassian says easily. “But I’d say the company tonight might improve the tradition.”

He holds out a large hand towards you, flashing a charming grin at you. “I’m Cassian. What’s your name gorgeous?”

Ah.

So that’s where this is going.

You’re amused — also slightly flustered — did he not know who you were?

“(Y/N).”

You reach out and shake his hand.

“Which court are you visiting from?”

“Autumn, if the colours didn’t make it too obvious,” you lightly joke.

The deep burgundy dress you wore tonight was stitched with flowing layers and leaves that shimmered in the light — a dress for a lady of Autumn whilst honouring aspects of Night.

His eyebrows lift slightly — he didn’t hide the fact his eyes lowered to appreciate your dress before fixing on your face once again.

“It’s nice to see Autumn sending someone so lovely — you’ll have to thank Eris for me.”

You laugh softly.

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”

He grins wider. “Or you could stay in the Night Court. We treat our guests very well.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “In fact, the beds are very comfortable—“

A warm hand slides around your waist.

Not subtle, or gentle.

Possessive.

You don’t even need to turn your head to see who it is.

Eris appears beside you like a flame taking shape.

Cassian freezes before he can finish his sentence.

Eris’s arm settles firmly around you, drawing you tight into his side. His fingers press hard into your hip, searing your skin through the layers of tulle, thumb brushing once in a silent claim.

“General,” Eris greets smoothly.

Cassian blinks.

“…Eris.”

You feel the faint rumble of amusement in Eris’s chest.

Cassian’s eyes flick between the two of you — your proximity, Eris’s hands, the way you’re not pulling away and settle against his side as if you belong there.

The deathly glare Eris is currently pinning on him.

Realisation dawns.

“Shit,” Cassian says slowly.

Eris tilts his head. “Yes.”

Cassian drags a hand down his face. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

“For you,” Eris replies calmly.

You bite your lip to stop a laugh.

Cassian straightens, looking deeply embarrassed now. “I didn’t realise you were—“

“My mate,” Eris finishes.

Cassian winces.

Before the awkwardness can deepen, another voice drifts in.

“Well, this is interesting.”

You turn to see Rhysand approaching, violet eyes glinting with amusement.

He takes in the scene instantly.

“Cassian,” he says, “why are you trying to start a war with Autumn by flirting with their High Lady?”

“I didn’t know!” Cassian sputters.

Eris’s fingers tighten just slightly, and you knew his temper was beginning to simmer — the air around you started to swelter.

“No harm done, he was just introducing himself,” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. You press your hand to Eris’s chest, turning more into his hold. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

Eris’s eyes narrowed and you don’t miss the fiery undertone to his voice. “Yes, he was merely being…friendly.”

“Very friendly,” you add innocently.

Cassian points at you. “You didn’t tell me!”

“You didn’t ask,” you reply sweetly.

Rhys chuckles under his breath.

“Well,” he says, clapping Cassian on the shoulder, “Congratulations. Why don’t you go and flirt with Viviane now and start another diplomatic incident?”

Cassian looks like he might throw himself off the balcony as Rhys steers him away, laughing.

Cassian throws one last horrified look over his shoulder at you, “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know!”

The moment they disappear into the crowd, Eris exhales slowly through his nose.

You glance up at him, already smiling.

“Oh no,” you say lightly, “is the terrifying High Lord of Autumn pouting?”

“I do not pout.”

“You absolutely pout.”

His arms tighten around your waist in response, pulling you firmly into his chest.

“I let you step away for ten minutes,” he says, with mild irritation, “and an Illyrian general attempts to charm my mate.”

You laugh, resting your hands against his chest, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.

“Charm might be a generous description.”

Eris raises a brow. “You seemed entertained.”

“Well,” you say innocently, “it was amusing.”

His eyes narrow.

Your smile widens.

His hands slide from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you even closer — entirely unnecessary given how close you already are.

You tilt your head. “You’re being very territorial tonight.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His thumb traces along your back.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I’m reminding certain Night Court warriors who you belong to.”

You laugh, nudging him slightly. “He didn’t know who I was.”

“That doesn’t make it any less irritating.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, “you should be flattered.”

“Flattered?”

“That your mate is apparently so irresistible.”

His gaze drifts slowly over your face.

Down your chest.

Then back up again.

“I am already well aware of that,” he says.

You try to maintain your teasing expression, but it softens under the weight of his attention.

“And besides,” you add lightly. “You arrived just in time to make your little dramatic entrance.”

“Good.”

“You enjoyed that part, didn’t you?”

Eris doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“Immensely.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

His hand drifts again — this time settling at your waist with unmistakable familiarity as he leans down slightly to nip at your ear lobe.

“Though next time,” he murmurs near your ear, “I may simply throw him off the balcony.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether he tries again.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say fondly.

His expression softens slightly, though the possessive warmth remains as this thumbs traces slow circles at your waist.

“Stay close for the rest of the night,” he murmurs.

“Because you’re worried someone else might flirt with me?”

“No,” he says smoothly. “I’d much rather keep my hands on you.”

You couldn’t help the involuntary squeak as both his hands reach down to grab your ass. You lightly slap his chest, biting your lip to keep your smirk at bay.

“Possessive male,” you mutter.

“Hopelessly,” he agrees.

You roll your eyes, but lean back into Eris’s hold as he turns you so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wind around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as a cascade of stars begins to fall overhead.

His hands refuse to leave your waist for the rest of the night.

The moment Eris falls for you is when he overhears you defending him.

You’d gotten into an argument with someone from the Night Court, probably Feyre or Cassian or one of the others who seemed to have such clear disdain for him.

You shared words and asked if any of them had even stopped to think about life from his point of view. If they had thought about how hard it must’ve been for him to grow up in such harsh conditions, living under Beron and no doubt becoming a product of survival.

You hadn’t denied his brutal words or casual cruelty he engaged in on occasion, but simply requested that they take time to understand why he might be that way. Why a male of his status might need to protect themselves in a harsher manner than say Azriel or Cassian.

You had empathized with him in a way he hadn’t received before, and at first, he was angry. Angry at you for pitying him, for encouraging others to do so, especially behind his back. He wasn’t weak or some petulant male that needed to be understood by others, he was the future High Lord of the Autumn Court godsdamnit, and he would act as he pleased.

But as time went on, he felt more and more desperate to hear those words again. The ones that had slipped through the barriers he put up his mind, thick steel walls that kept his inner world separate from the outer danger that surrounded him. He craved to hear that sweet voice pleading with her friends again, defending his honor as if she’d had a stake in his approval.

Ily and I hope you have the best birthday <3

-🪐

Thank you for this my love!! Eris still makes me nervous to write but I hope I got him right in this one ☺️ mmm Eris...

Burning Bright

ACOTAR x Reader Masterlist | Bday Masterlist

Eris x Reader

Warnings: smut

Words: 900

18+ only pls

Eris x reader

Notes: I realized I haven’t written a period comfort fic for Eris and was in desperate need of one. And now I give you this, please accept my contribution to the trope

Warnings: period, comfort, fluff

Entering Eris’s office clutching your latest read you find the room empty. His scent is still somewhat fresh. The mating bond in your chest humming at the comfort it brings.

You let out a sad sigh, sitting in your usual spot on the couch facing Eris’s desk. Your hands shake slightly as you flip to the page where you left off.

You had woken up without your mate and to pain from your cycle. Craving the warmth Eris can give you was the only motivator to get up.

Pairing: Rhysand x f!reader

Summary: You should’ve locked the door. He should’ve knocked.

Warnings: nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, obsession/possessiveness, explicit language

Word Count: 796

Day 3 | Kinktober Masterlist | Day 5

Summary: Y/N's new kitten--gifted by Rhysand himself--quickly becomes the center of her world. Rhys tries to hide his growing jealousy but fails spectacularly. Cue soft chaos, playful banter, and a High Lord who just wants his mate's attention back.

Warnings: rhys being a jealous prick, fluff.

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The townhouse was unusually quiet that morning, bathed in soft Velaris sunlight that streamed through the high windows and scattered gold across the rug. Rhysand stood in the sitting room, arms crossed as he stared at a simple cardboard box placed delicately on the low table in front of him. It didn't look like much--just a box with a few small holes poked through the sides--but inside, nestled in a blanket the color of moonlight, was something far more precious than the packaging suggested.

Azriel

aftercare with azriel is silent devotion. he doesn’t rush to speak; instead, he stays close, grounding you with presence before words. his shadows soften immediately, curling around you like a private shelter, dimming the world. he checks in quietly; a low “are you alright?” murmured near your temple. and waits, patient, until you answer. he brings you water without being asked, adjusts blankets, makes sure your breathing is steady. his touch is careful, reverent: a thumb tracing slow patterns on your wrist, his forehead resting against yours. he stays awake longer than you do, watching for any shift in your expression, any sign you need more comfort. if you’re emotional, overwhelmed, or quiet, he doesn’t try to fix it, he lets you exist exactly as you are. later, when words come easier, he might say something simple and devastatingly sincere; “you’re safe,” or “i’ve got you.” loving you afterward looks like vigilance softened into care.

Mor

aftercare with mor feels like being wrapped in sunlight after a storm. she’s attentive, intuitive, deeply gentle. she reads you easily; knows when you want closeness, when you want space, when you want to talk or sleep. she keeps physical contact constant but light: fingers through your hair, her thumb brushing your cheek, her legs tangled with yours. she checks in softly, voice warm and reassuring, reminding you that you did nothing wrong, that you’re safe, that you’re cherished. if emotions spill over, she lets them; holding your face, looking at you like there is nothing about you she would ever shy away from. afterward, she stays emotionally present. she might tease lightly to ease the intensity, or whisper affirmations meant only for you. mor’s aftercare is about restoration; making sure you leave the moment feeling lighter, loved, and deeply seen.

Cassian

cassian’s aftercare is warmth and reassurance in its most human form. he pulls you close immediately, all solid presence and steady heartbeat, as if reminding you that you’re anchored. he’s talkative then — not joking, not deflecting — just honest. asking how you feel. asking if you’re okay, asking if you need anything, again and again, until he’s sure. he brings snacks. water. maybe a blanket he drapes around you both like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he presses kisses into your hair, your shoulder, your forehead — grounding, affectionate, unashamed. if you seem distant, he’ll gently pull your attention back with touch and soft words. cassian holds you like something precious, not fragile. afterward, he makes you laugh on purpose; not to avoid the intensity, but to help you come back into yourself. his love says: you’re here, you’re wanted.

Rhysand

azriel's cock is pretty, like very pretty. now, this might sound weird.

you never thought a cock could be pretty, you never thought something like that could even come out of your lips. but that's simply the truth.

the first time you saw it, you nearly drooled all over it like a common whore. the sight alone made you drip between your legs, your mouth salivated. you wanted it deep in your throat.

now, azriel had no objection, of course. he finds it almost funny how addicted you are to sucking his cock, but you just can't help it. his tip is the prettiest shade of pink, his veins a deep mix between red and purple, after all it's not your fault that it's so perfect!

"you just love this cock too much, huh, baby?" his tone is mocking, but you're to focused between his legs to care. you suck on his tip like your life depends on it, the salty taste of precum makes your eyes roll back. you can't get enough. "yeah... don't fucking stop, love."

where you can't reach with your mouth, you use a hand to give him pleasure. his cock is so girthy that you almost can't hold it all, your fingertips barely touching. the sight makes azriel feral.

usually, it doesn't take long before he takes control. his hands hold your hair, guiding you. or more like fucking into you, using you as toy for his pleasure. "you're such a perfect little whore, babe. look at how good you take this cock..."

tears stream down your eyes, you moan with your mouth full, incapable of doing anything else. the vibrations only add to his pleasure, his thrusts hit deeper and deeper each time, the back of your throat hurts, but you couldn't care less. "you like when i use you as a fleshlight, huh? yeah... you sure do, love. look at how you're drooling."

his chuckle is dark, his rhythm unforgiving as some shadows swirl around your little bundle of nerves. you can't breathe, too overwhelmed by the stimulation and the lack of oxygen. "don't worry, love, just a little more..." his voice is sinful, and the scene is just too erotic for you. you can feel your own orgasm grow, a quick knot forming at the base of your belly. "you want my cum down your throat, don't you? dirty little thing."

you nod, at least you try. shadows swirl around your body, gifting you little caress on the most sensitive parts. you clench around nothing, and you almost complain about your little hole being empty but azriel is quicker, he takes control of your actions, his hands hold your hair so tight that it hurts, but it only adds to the pleasure your feeling.

"just a little more... just a little more, love."

and seconds after, strings of cum paint your throat white and you drink from his cock, sucking him with the little energy you have left and milking him until he begs you to stop, and suddenly his hands try to push you away, but you can't help it, especially when he tastes so good<3

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