#azriel fluff

He wished he knew how to comfort you. He seemed to have the annoying tendency to freeze up around you. Any ability to form a coherent sentence seemed to flee his mind when he got too close to you, when he thought about you. He was fortunate enough that you didn’t seem to notice, or, if you did, you never mentioned it.

Azriel was flustered around you.

You were everything he ever wanted, and he was so worried about losing you, about messing this up in some way, that he overthought everything he said and did. He was so used to moving with absolute confidence—not necessarily in himself, but in what he was meant to say and do. He knew what was expected of him, but now, with you? Now he was desperate and infatuated and—

Your hand slid into his, your cold fingers entwining with his scarred ones, and Azriel’s spiral grinded to a halt. Your eyes met his, wide and nervous and eager. Your lips pulled into a small smile, your hand squeezing his as if his touch, his presence, was enough to ground you. 

“This is fine,” you said, nodding to yourself as you glanced at the wooden double doors. Your gaze flicked back to him, the warm faelights surrounding the door making your eyes twinkle, and Azriel had to remind himself to breathe. “You’ll stay with me, right?”

Azriel blinked, his mind lagging as he processed your words. One of his shadows bumped into the back of his head, before spiraling down to wrap around your entwined hands, and Azriel felt his entire body turn warm. He squeezed your hand, his heart skipping when your smile widened into a grin. “Of course I will,” he answered softly.

You bit your bottom lip briefly, a nervous habit of yours, Azriel had noticed. He was entirely certain you had no idea how endearing, how alluring, the tiny motion was—how the darkened skin of your lips when you released the delicate skin tormented him. He wanted to kiss you. Every fiber of his being wanted to tug you close and press his lips to yours, but then doubt crept in and darkened the momentary haze that engulfed his senses.

He wanted to go at your pace. He needed to go slow. Azriel had taken plenty of lovers, but he had never had a partner, and he was quickly learning that this came with an entirely new facet of intimacy he was a stranger to. A form of intimacy so vulnerable it left him rattled—gentle smiles and grazing of hands, chipping away emotional walls he had built centuries ago. 

Azriel shifted just a little closer, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand. Everything about you was intoxicating. Your scent was sweet, like brown sugar and vanilla. Azriel thought at first it was because of the long hours you spent in your bakery, but he had decided that it was just you. Your eyes crinkled at the edges, some of your nerves dulling as the two of you stared into each other's eyes, and Azriel couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his own lips.

Then the door flew open, the hinges creaking slightly with the abrupt motion, causing the two of you to flinch. You curled into Azriel’s side, your hand still clutching his as your arm pressed flush against his, and he had never felt so much pride as he did then, knowing your instincts were to lean on him.

He glared at Nesta, who stood in the doorway with cool and narrowed eyes. Her lips pursed as she took the two of you in, and he felt you go rigid underneath her gaze. “Nesta,” he snapped, his spine prickling with irritation.

Her eyes dragged to his, her lips pulling up into the smallest smirk, and he knew then that this was her version of teasing. “Be glad it was me,” she drawled, stepping back to hold the door open further. She raised her brows expectantly, and Azriel sighed as he glanced at you. Your nerves were back in full force, and yet it was you who smiled hesitantly, and took the first step through the threshold.

Nesta shut the door behind the two of you, the heavy wood shutting with a soft click. Azriel helped you out of your coat, his skin buzzing as your smile turned bashful when his fingers curled around the lapels.

“Cassian is practically chomping at the bit,” Nesta warned, her gaze tracking Azriel as he put your coat and scarf in the closet.

“Wonderful,” Azriel murmured.

When he turned back around, you were still standing there in the foyer, your hands fidgeting at your sides as you took in Nesta. “Hi,” you said, a wide smile breaking out on your face as you gave a small, adorable wave that you promptly dropped. He watched your throat bob, your heart once again pounding in your chest. “I’m Y/N.”

Nesta, thank the Mother, smiled back. “Nesta,” she returned, her icy tone thawing a bit. “We’ve heard a lot about you, Y/N.”

Azriel’s face went hot as you glanced at him. “Oh,” you said, uncertainty lacing your words, “All good things, I hope?”

Nesta scoffed, waving away your worry. “The way Az talks about you—you would think you hung the moon and stars.”

Azriel’s face was molten now, but his embarrassment was entirely worth it to see your shoulders relax and your grin brighten into one unmarred by nerves. It was worth it to feel your joy radiate down the bond, a pulse of euphoria that made his mind fuzzy.

He expected you to follow after Nesta, and he sent you an encouraging smile as you watched her walk down the hall. Instead, you turned toward him, grabbing his hand in both of yours, and you pulled him with you after Nesta.

Azriel felt like he was floating.

~ ~ ~

That night, after bidding his family goodbye and freeing you from their incessant questions, and himself from their relentless teasing, the two of you walked side by side along the Sidra. Azriel had offered to winnow you home—or fly you—but you refused. You always refused those offers, and Azriel never pushed, but part of him wished you would let him, just once.

It was admittedly nice to slow down with you, though. The water trickling along the Sidra was louder in the quiet of the night, at least on this side of the city. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his wings were nestled tight against his back, and he was begging his shadows not to swarm you. You were close enough beside him that your arm brushed his every so often, every accidental graze making his heart leap and his shadows buzz.

Then you stopped, the gentle click of your footsteps abruptly halting. You grabbed Azriel’s arm before he could really even react, dragging him back a couple of steps so he stood in front of you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his heart rate immediately picking up.

You smiled softly, a smile unlike any of the others you had passed around to his family tonight, and he liked the thought of you having a smile just for him. “I’m fine—Az.” His cheeks reddened at the familial nickname you clearly picked up on. “I didn’t know you liked to be called that,” you added softly, a question hidden in your words.

Azriel shrugged. “Rhys and Cas have called me that since I was a boy.”

You nodded, looking out at the water behind him. “Your family is really nice—close.”

Azriel felt like there was something you weren’t saying, something you were holding back, and suddenly all of his earlier anxiety came rushing back. “They are,” he agreed slowly. “They can be a little much at times—I know that. I’m sorry if—”

“Azriel,” you interrupted gently, your hand squeezing his arm. “They did nothing wrong.” Then with a smaller smile, “I had a good night.”

He could feel the ache in his chest radiating through him, and he was fairly certain that at least some of that was coming from you. “Tell me what else you’re thinking,” he urged gently.

You took a deep breath, pulling your hand away to stick both of them in your coat pockets. Azriel hated it.

“I just—” you started, then shook your head. “I know we’ve only known each other for a month.” Another smile stretched your lips, but this time it didn’t reach your eyes, and it quickly fell. “And I know I just sort of dropped into your lap—and that I’m probably nothing like what you expected as you mate—”

“That’s not true,” Azriel hurried out, the words desperate. He was the one to reach for you this time, his hands curling around your arms, and he saw the way you watched him, the way your eyes widened at his touch. “You’re—you—” Azriel hated that he was fumbling this, that he was struggling to give you these words. “You’re beautiful,” he finally said. “I don’t have a better word for it. Inside and out—you leave me in awe. And I’m so grateful I found you.”

Your eyes glistened in the moonlight, laughing half-heartedly as you wiped away a tear. “I’m sorry,” you said, “This is silly.”

“It’s not,” he assured.

You shrugged, your hands still stuffed in your pockets and Azriel’s hands still gripping your arms. “I guess it just rattled me, being around so many people that know you so well. It—well, it didn’t feel great. I know that’s unfair, I know it’s only been a month, but—”

Azriel’s hands cupped your cheeks, startling you. Your eyes stared into his, wide and unblinking, and when you watched his gaze fall to your lips, he felt you relax into his touch. “Azriel,” you whispered, your breath warm against his cool skin. “You don’t have to.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, and you leaned a little more into his hand. You never balked from his scarred skin, and you never pushed for answers either. Azriel appreciated it, more than you likely knew, but maybe it was time he started peeling away some of his layers for you. You shouldn’t have to ask.

His eyes met yours again, and he thought he might like to fall into your irises, let the way they sparkled under the Velaris sky consume him. “I want to,” he murmured.

Your breath hitched, and your hands now clutched his waist, your hands curled tight in the fabric of his coat. “What are you waiting for then?”

That was a very good question.

Azriel pressed his lips against yours, and his entire world tilted on its axis. His blood rushed a little faster, his skin turning warm in the cold, early winter air. The thread twining the two of you together glowed when you pressed up on your toes to get closer, one of your hands reaching up to thread through the hair at the back of his head. You tasted like the glass of wine you had sipped on all night, mixed with a hint of sugar that made him smile against your lips.

The kiss was sweet—tender. It was unlike anything Azriel had ever experienced in his five centuries of life and he never wanted it to end. When your hand slid around to cup his face, when your fingers brushed his cheek, he felt himself melt a little, drops of his heart falling into yours.

You were the one to break away first, falling back onto your feet and wobbling a bit, Azriel quickly steadying you by a hand on your waist. You giggled, sniffing a bit as a cold breeze washed over the two of you, and Azriel was certain he looked like a lovesick fool as a grin spread across his face. Gods, you were perfect.

Azriel couldn’t help but press one more kiss to your lips, your face now flushed with warmth when he cupped your jaw. “You’ve brought out parts of me even I didn’t know existed,” he murmured, eyes stuck to yours again. Your lips parted, awe washing over your face. “This is just the beginning, Y/N.”

You smiled, that soft and special smile again, and Azriel was floating amongst the moonlit clouds. “I like the sound of that,” you murmured.

~ ~ ~

Azriel was in love.

His heart was irrevocably yours, and there was no other life on this planet he would trust to handle it with as much effortless care as you.

You were joy incarnate, and maybe there was some sick and twisted humor behind the Mother’s choice to link his dark and dreary heart to yours—but he was selfishly so grateful that he belonged to you now.

You were fluttering between booths in the market, your hair a little tangled and errant from the wind today, and a smile so soft it immediately disarmed anyone you approached. Azriel was trying to stay back, to let you shop and chatter to your heart’s desire without his intimidating presence dampening your glee.

It was freezing today, a light dusting of snow laid across the cobblestone streets—but you had insisted on visiting the winter markets, saying that today would be the best day for finding bargains, now that Winter Solstice had passed.

His heart was warm as he watched the silver pendant he gifted you glint in the morning sun, a diamond encrusted starburst that sat against the center of your chest. You had worn it every day since Solstice, and Azriel couldn’t deny the pride he felt when he saw the necklace around your neck. 

Your head snapped to him, your eyes locking on him from across the street, as if you had known where he had wandered off to this entire time. Your eyes were bright as you hurried through the crowd, your steps light and airy as you ran toward him.

“Azriel,” you said excitedly. You looped your arm through his without a second thought, tugging him close against your side before you dragged him into the throng of faeries. “You have to see this booth. She has peppermint chocolates left over from Solstice, and I was so sad I didn’t find any this year. Oh! She has these chocolate covered cherries too, and I know you don’t love sweets, but you do like cherries—”

Azriel could listen to you talk for days on end. Your voice was like a balm for his soul, and your touch—your touch was enchanting. No matter how much time you spent together, Azriel was unraveled by every one of your touches. It was these casual displays of affection that really did him in. The way you pressed your side against his and held onto him as you pointed out sweet after sweet to him.

The way you didn’t mind the stares his presence garnered sometimes. The way you held on just a little bit tighter when you caught the interested gaze of a female across the table. Azriel loved it.

He loved you.

~ ~ ~

Azriel had done his best to shield you from the gory and unsavory details that came with his job. He hated that you knew he had hurt people, that he was feared. He was terrified you might one day wake up and see the blood on his hands, and finally decide to leave him.

That was why, despite every instinct inside him screaming to go to you, he plummeted on the balcony of the House of Wind, and not on the cobblestone street leading toward your house. He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, cursing the Autumn Court bastards that had ambushed him at the border. He ought to wring Eris’s neck for letting his father’s minions slip through his fingers.

He should have probably found Madja, but he hated the idea of waking her in the middle of the night, when he knew he would heal—eventually. He just needed to shut himself in his room and lick his wounds for a bit, and he would be fine.

Fine enough to finally see you, after weeks apart.

Azriel didn’t know how he didn’t immediately notice you sitting on his bed, but he nearly fell over when he heard your horrified voice murmur, “Oh gods.”

The door shut behind Azriel with a harsh thud, his body falling against it as soon as it closed. He winced when your hands cradled his face, your skin soft and warm against his clammy and dirty cheeks. “Az,” you breathed, your mounting panic making your hands tremble. “What happened?”

One of his hands came up to wrap around yours, gently pulling it away from his face. “I’m okay,” he told you, voice rough with the obvious lie. He would be okay, though, and that’s what mattered. “Just a little bruised.”

“You’re bleeding,” you argued, sliding his arm over your shoulder. His sweet mate, who didn’t hesitate to shoulder the weight of his body that was twice the size of yours. He did his best not to lean too much on you, but his mind was addled with pain and exhaustion and confusion, and he just wanted to melt into your touch.

You guided him into the bathroom, setting him down on the toilet as the bathing pool behind him started to fill. You brushed the hair from his eyes, one of your hands gliding down to cup his jaw, and Azriel couldn’t help but let his head fall into your hand.

“Sweetheart,” you murmured, and Azriel was practically a puddle on the floor. No one had ever called him something so lovely, so soft. No one had ever handled him with so much care.

“I promise,” he said, meeting your eyes. “I’ll be okay.”

“Well, you’re not right now,” you grumbled. Azriel shouldn’t find it as endearing as he did. He knew it probably hurt you to see him hurt—he didn’t want to even imagine if the roles were reversed. 

Azriel flinched when your fingers started working at the buckles of his leathers, making your eyes fly back to his. “Did I hurt you?” you asked, fingers hovering over his abdomen.

“No.” He shook his head. “What are you doing?”

You huffed, going right back to work on his leathers. “We need to get these off of you.”

Azriel’s hand grabbed yours, his eyes wide when he met your exasperated ones. “I am more than capable of—”

“Azriel—” you snapped, fingers tightening around his leathers, making him hiss. You immediately loosened your grip, and a flash of guilt passed through your eyes, making you deflate. “Just let me take care of you?” you pleaded.

Azriel wasn’t going to tell you no. Even if his heart had stopped beating and his shadows had stilled behind him.

So he nodded, and you started undoing his buckles and laces one by one, peeling away the blood soaked fabric until his skin was bare. It was unfair that this was how you were undressing him for the first time.

You tossed his leathers to the side, picking up a cloth and soap then dunking it in the tub. As you wrung the rag out, you glanced at him out of the corner of your eyes, catching him watching you. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He tracked your movements, his shadows finally breaking from their stupor to circle around you slowly. A drop of water fell to his knee as you let the cloth hover between you, your brows raising expectantly.

Azriel knew he should. He should tell you about his mission—he should be transparent with his mate of all people about the atrocities he faces, and sometimes causes, if you were ever going to accept the bond between your souls. 

He knew that, and yet the words wouldn’t form.

Instead, he swallowed hard, his mouth gone dry, and shook his head slowly. “Not tonight.”

He saw the disappointment in your eyes, no matter how carefully you tried to veil it. He felt the twinge of hurt that pushed through the bond, and Azriel hated himself for it.

“I’m not naive, you know,” you said as you pressed the cloth to his abdomen. Azriel flinched, and this time you didn’t pull away. “I know what you do is dangerous. I know the sacrifices you must make are unimaginable. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Azriel’s brain was short-circuiting as he listened to your soft voice, as you gently cleaned the blood from his skin. It wasn’t until you pulled away that he realized he should really answer you, but he didn’t have a good response.

He supposed if he wasn’t ready to give you one truth, he could give you another though.

You dunked the cloth in the water, ripples of blood curling away from your hands—his blood, and undoubtedly others. You stood up, moving back to him, this time using the pads of your fingers to gently tilt his chin up. You held his face like that as you wiped the dirt and grime and caked on blood from around his eyes, your finger gently brushing his jaw anytime you went over a cut.

You were so beautiful. There were truly not enough words to describe how perfect you were, and Azriel was appalled when he felt his eyes burn and his nose tingle as he watched you take care of him. He was mortified when your eyes met his and your ministrations stopped.

“Azriel,” you said softly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice rougher than he would have liked. “I’m scared you will look at me differently, if you know the things I’ve done—the things I’m capable of.”

Your face twisted, and Azriel immediately wanted to take his words back and shove them down deep inside. You tossed the cloth into the bath, cupping his face with both of your hands, and Azriel felt a tremble go through him. He had never felt so exposed as he did then, sitting on a toilet with bare and tattered skin, his head—and his heart—in his mate’s soft and gentle hands.

You kissed him.

It was just a chaste kiss, a slow and drawn out press of your lips to his, but it dragged the breath from Azriel’s lungs and left him dazed and blinking as soon as you pulled away. 

Your eyes were locked on his when you said, “I know you don’t remember this, but you saved my life once—before we met.”

Every whirring and buzzing worry circling Azriel’s head ground to a halt. “What?” he rasped. How could he ever forget—

You smiled, the first one you had given him all night, and your thumb brushed against his cheek. “When Velaris was attacked,” you said, voice so soft in the quiet of the night, “I was cornered in the alley behind my bakery. One of Hybern’s monsters had found me—I’ll never forget its face.” Azriel’s hand came up to circle your wrist, his heart aching as your voice trembled. “I thought I was going to die, Azriel. Blood was raining from the sky and screams were piercing the air, and I was staring in the face of what I thought was my end—and then his head fell to the pavement.”

Azriel shook his head, his chest tight. “I don’t remember—how can I not—”

“Sweetheart,” you interrupted gently, “You didn’t even see me—I mean, you obviously knew someone was there, but you came and went like a breeze. You were a little busy defending your city.” That smile again. “But a shadow stayed behind, curling against my neck like a worried pet—and I knew who saved me. I’ve never been scared of you Azriel, but after that day, knowing I lived in a city under your protection made me feel safe.”

Azriel was crying now. His cheeks were damp from the tears that ran down his face and onto your hands. “I don’t want the darkness that taints my soul to ever seep into yours.”

You hummed softly, brushing away the hair that had fallen into his eyes again. “I quite like the dark,” you said, “It’s gentle in its own way. It knows things that would never be found in the light.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“You do,” you promised, your own eyes glimmering in the moonlight leaking through the windows now. “And you never have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Azriel—but I’m here if you do, and I will love you through it all.”

~ ~ ~

Azriel had never considered himself to be a jealous male.

Was he occasionally temperamental? Yes.

Did he have a history of pining? Unfortunately.

He was never territorial, though. He could still remember the days Cassian would spar with males in their camp after treading too close to a female, the rage that wafted off them in waves as Cassian’s smug ass smirked at them. Azriel was never like that.

No, he wasn’t territorial, and he wasn’t jealous—he was just protective. He would die for the ones he loved, and now that you were at the top of that list, he was just worried about you. Worried about the way the male at the bar kept inching closer, the way your smile grew tighter when he laughed at one of his jokes, and the way you flinched when his hand touched your arm.

Watching his fingers graze your skin turned Azriel’s vision red.

He shrugged off Cassian’s attempt to sit him back down, rage pumping through his veins as his gaze stayed glued to the hand resting on your arm. He really wasn’t thinking when his hands grabbed your waist, physically pulling you away from the male and inserting himself between you and him. Your eyes were wide when you saw him, startled by his sudden appearance. “Az—” you said, “What’s wrong?”

Azriel picked up the arm the male had touched, his disgruntled jeers behind him blurring with the rest of the raucous throughout Rita’s. He dragged his hand up and down the length of your arm, your breath stuttering at his touch. “Are you okay?” he asked, softening the venom that he had been ready to spew at the male behind him.

You blinked, glancing down at your arm in his hand. “I’m okay,” you answered, with a bit of confusion in your tone. “Are you?”

Azriel was practically vibrating with anger, every bit of his restraint being used to face you and to not turn around and grab that male by the throat. “Great,” he said.

“You’re shaking,” you said, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. “And your heart is racing.”

His hand came up to rest on top of yours, finally dropping your arm from his grasp. “I’m okay,” he said, this time a little more convincing—he thought. “I just—I got worried. When I saw that male…”

Understanding dawned on your face, and an amused grin stretched across your face. “Ah,” you said, patting his chest. Azriel only squeezed your hand. “I see.” You peered around his shoulder, and Azriel begrudgingly followed your gaze, relieved to see the male had turned his attention to a female that was not his mate. “He was harmless. A little touchy, if you ask me—” A lot touchy, if you asked Azriel. “But who isn’t when they’re drunk?”

“He shouldn’t just be touching people—”

“No,” you agreed. “He shouldn’t.” Then mischief lit your eyes, and you stepped in closer, your chest brushing against his. “I bet you’re a cuddly drunk.”

Azriel scoffed, leaning into you a little more. Your scent drowned out the sweat and alcohol of the bar, and he much preferred your sweet smell over the suffocating air in Rita’s. “In your dreams, honey.”

~ ~ ~

“Can I touch your wings?”

Azriel nearly dropped the glass of water he had just filled from the kitchen tap. He blinked, taking in the way you were sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed, your bottom lip stuck between your teeth again. He could see the curiosity eating at the edges of your eyes, and he wondered just how long you had been dying to ask him that.

“You can tell me no,” you said, drawing him out of his shock. “I asked Cassian—”

“You asked Cassian if you could touch his wings?” 

Azriel felt faint.

“No!” you exclaimed, hands shooting out to your sides. “No, of course not. I just—I didn’t know—” You huffed, clearly flustered. Azriel came closer, setting your glass of water on your night stand so he could sit beside you. “He explained that you’re taught to protect your wings as babes—that they’re sensitive, vulnerable—but he said that he didn’t think you would mind if I asked.”

Of course he said that.

“I’m sorry,” you said sheepishly. “That was foolish. I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

Azriel grabbed your hands that were moving around frantically, bringing them down to rest in your lap. Your throat bobbed as you looked at him, your eyes wide and nervous. “Of course you can touch my wings,” he said softly, his words alone making his stomach flip. “But, sweetheart, they’re very…” Azriel felt his face warm. “They’re very sensitive.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Not like that,” he corrected gently. 

You blinked, recognition slowly creeping onto your face. “Oh.” Then you winced, embarrassment clouding your face. “Oh. I can’t believe I asked Cassian—”

“It’s okay,” he assured you, and he would make sure Cassian never brought it up again. “Cassian didn’t mind, I guarantee you.”

You nodded softly, your eyes roving over him, your gaze catching on his lips—then his wings splayed out behind him. When your eyes flit back to him, your pupils blown with your heart beating a little faster in your chest, Azriel forgot how to breathe. “Can I?” you asked softly.

Azriel licked his lips, nodding slowly, anticipation clawing at his chest as he waited for his mate to touch him. You slowly untwined your hands from his, shifting so you faced him more, your hand trembling slightly as you let it hover over the inner membrane of his wing.

When your fingers finally grazed the delicate skin, Azriel grappled for every last thread of restraint he possessed to hold still, to let you explore this part of him—months of growing tension and longing to tip over this new edge of intimacy with his mate, and he was wholly unprepared for just how transcendent your touch was. Your fingers dragged up his wing and then back down one of the ridges, your skin soft and warm against him, leaving a trail of unimaginable pleasure in their wake.

When you traced back up the ridge, and your fingers trailed along the arch to the inner membrane again, the shudder that escaped Azriel was inevitable. You paused, your fingers lifting from him. “I’m okay,” he said, his voice embarrassingly rough.

He noticed it then, the shift in your scent—your warm and sugary scent turning hot and intoxicating in an entirely new way. He felt the desire that twirled inside you pulse down the bond, and Azriel’s own arousal intensified ten-fold. 

You grabbed his face in your hands, your lips locking with his before he could overthink this, before he could hesitate or flee or even think about slowing down. You had never kissed him like this before, never with so much fervor and white hot desire that it left him spinning and clinging to you just to stay upright.

You tugged him close by the neck of his shirt, stretching the flimsy fabric to the point it ripped a bit at the seam. You only huffed against his mouth in frustration, your hands reached around him to rip open the slats in his shirt, fingers grazing the skin at the base of his wings and forcing another shudder through his body. 

Azriel curled into you, his forehead pressed against your neck, his arms looping around you to hold you even closer. His breaths were growing more shallow, his mind foggy with something beyond desire—a sense of belonging and love so potent he thought he might drown in it.

Your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, dragging over his abdomen as you pushed the fabric up, up, and up, a desperation limning your movements that he had never seen in you—a desperation that made his mind stutter, a kernel of worry nestling inside him as you pulled his shirt over his head—and then yours.

You were truly ethereal, which Azriel already knew, but seeing you like this was…it was an honor. A privilege—one he had no intention of taking for granted. His hands rested on the soft curves of your waist, your body warm and pliant against him.

Then your hands reached out, tracing his wing in delicate patterns that felt anything but—and there was only so much willpower Azriel had when he was in the hands of his mate. He squeezed your hips, holding you away from him just a bit, but you did your best to reach for him again. “Y/N,” he breathed out, voice ragged and trembling when you reached for his other wing. “Honey,” he said, pushing you back a bit, your hazy eyes finally meeting him. “Maybe we should slow down?”

A flash of hurt so raw and visceral passed through your eyes, and Azriel felt like he had been stabbed.

You shook your head, blinking too many times. “I don’t—do you want to stop?”

“No,” he rasped, his body coiled tight with pleasure that was sitting on a dangerous precipice. “But you seem—”

Your eyes filled with a new determination, your hands tracing down his face, his neck, his chest, his stomach. “I want to take care of you,” you whispered, your lips latching onto the skin at his neck before he could really respond.

Then you pulled back, tugging on his arm as you crawled onto the center of the bed. “Come here,” you coaxed, and Azriel was too enthralled by you to do anything but follow.

He fell back into the mountain of pillows you had scattered across the head of your bed, his wings splaying out on either side of him. He watched you carefully, his eyes drinking in every inch of your body, breathing in your scent that left him spinning as you crawled on top of him, your legs bracketing his hips. Your eyes locked onto his, and relief washed over him as he felt you tug on the thread between you, a gentle warmth rushing through his blood that seemed to anchor both of you back to each other.

Your hands roamed his chest, his stomach, your eyes tracking your fingers that tracing every ridge and valley of his muscles that rippled reflexively beneath your touch. “I’ve never felt this way,” you whispered, half to yourself. “You’re so beautiful, Azriel—it makes me dizzy.”

Azriel huffed a laugh, his head falling back into the pillows as he let you explore. “I know the feeling.”

He sucked in a sharp breath when your lips pressed to his chest, trembling as you worked your way over his skin, your tongue laving over his nipple briefly before moving up to his neck. He had never—no one had ever had this sort of access to him. He was always in control in the past, always the one in charge. Never had he just laid bare for someone to inspect and touch and kiss—but he couldn’t imagine not letting you have your way with him.

He would give you the moon if you asked.

He groaned when you sucked a little harder on the skin at his collarbone, and when your mouth dragged over his shoulder and to his arm, your teeth grazing his bicep in a way that simultaneously taunted and begged for more, he had succumbed entirely to your touch. Your hands moved back to his wings, stroking and brushing the membrane with exploratory and reverent touches that Azriel was certain was better than anything he had ever dreamed of.

When your teeth sank against the skin of his bicep, he gasped, the bite unexpected and intoxicating. You kissed the mark you inevitably left in your wake, and finally, finally, you brought your lips back to his. His hips involuntarily bucked against you, desperation creeping in as you kissed him and stroked the arch of his wings. “Honey,” he rasped, your lips sealing his warning away for another second. “I can’t—I’m going to—”

You rolled your hips against him, your lips kissing his jaw, his neck, his ear. “Good,” you whispered. “Let go, Azriel. I’ve got you, I promise.”

Your words electrocuted something inside him, sparking another dormant and fractured piece of him back to life. He fell into the pleasure you had weaved inside him, letting it wrap around him and hold him hostage for so many long and blissful seconds, his entire body trembling as he came undone. 

You kissed him through it, your touches slowing and growing more gentle, and Azriel had never felt true euphoria until this moment. His chest heaved as he came down, his eyes never leaving yours. When you smiled softly with a hint of shyness lying in the crinkle of your eyes, Azriel knew that he had found a home in your arms, and he would protect and cherish it until the day he drew his last breath.

~ ~ ~

If a few nights ago was Azriel’s dream come true, today was his living nightmare.

You had been avoiding him since that night, and every second that passed without seeing you only stretched the chasm growing in his chest farther and farther.

He was panicking.

Everything seemed fine when the two of you fell asleep—good, even. Azriel had never felt so at peace as he had in that moment, with you in his arms and his wing draped over you.

You had not let him take care of you the way you had him, but he didn’t want to push. He would never do that. As much as it pained him not to give you the pleasure you had given him, he recognized the vulnerability that had crept into your eyes, that laced your words after you kissed him and said Not tonight.

He knew it was a lot.

It was overwhelming and intoxicating and he could have very well stayed in bed next to you for an eternity if you let him—but you were gone come morning.

The bed was still warm where you had once laid, your scent still potent on your sheets, and the morning sun glittered off the charms and suncatchers you had hanging in your window—it was a perfectly warm and peaceful morning, except you were nowhere to be found.

Azriel would have liked to stay until you returned. He tried. He spent the morning cleaning your kitchen, doing the dishes from last night’s dinner, wiping down the counters and straightening the Solstice decorations you still had out. He picked up your living room—he even folded the pile of laundry you had stacked on the chair in your room.

Hours passed and your apartment was spotless, but you still weren’t back—and well, Azriel wasn’t clueless. He could take a hint.

He started to feel like an invader and less like a guest the longer your absence stretched, and he never wanted to encroach on your space, your privacy. He never wanted to be the reason you were uncomfortable, though it seemed that was exactly what he was.

So he left, the smell of you and your apartment clinging to his clothes as he shut and locked your door behind him, a twinge of guilt in his chest for stealing your spare key, but he would be damned if he left your apartment unlocked and vulnerable.

He really wanted to sit on the roof across the street and wait for you to return, but the odds of you catching him were too high—you always seemed to know exactly when he was near and where he morphed into the shadows. He also didn’t want to scare you, so he settled for a note on your counter and your spare key in his pocket, and possibly a small tendril of shadow lurking in the curtains of your living room.

You came home in the early evening—and that’s all he knew.

He was itching to see you, to talk to you, to understand what went wrong, but you were never home when Azriel stopped by.

Just like you weren’t home now. It was like you knew when he was coming, and fled before he could catch you. He didn’t understand.

He wasn’t angry. Far from it. He would be the biggest hypocrite in Prythian if he was—the Mother only knew how many times he had pushed people away or ran from his feelings. Hell, he was terrified he would do that to you, he just never imagined he would be facing such a role reversal.

A bit arrogant of him, if he was honest. He dropped his forehead to your door, the silence of your apartment weighing him down. He could go to your bakery. He knew he would most likely find you there, but he hated the thought of ambushing you at your place of work. It was important to you, and the last thing he wanted to do was taint it.

And really, it had only been a few days. He was being a tad dramatic. His brothers would tear him apart if they saw him now. He could practically hear Cassian’s taunts—

“Azriel?”

His head flew up, his heart leaping in his chest at the sound of your voice. You were standing there, just a few feet away from him, with your hair a bit frazzled from the day and smudges of flour streaked across your pants. Your scent wafted over to him, the same warm and sugary scent mixed with something new—cherries.

Azriel took a step closer, his eyes raking over you. “You smell like cherries.”

You blinked, a bit stunned, and Azriel wanted to shake himself for saying that of all things. You bit your bottom lip, and Azriel watched the way it curled beneath your teeth and popped back out when you said, “Yeah, I was working on something new. I thought you might like it, but…” you trailed off, seeming a bit dazed. “What are you doing here?”

Azriel ignored the twinge of hurt in his chest, knowing it was a perfectly reasonable question to ask the male who was slumped against your apartment door. “I wanted to see you.”

He saw your grip on your keys tighten, glancing warily at your apartment door. “Oh–”

“Actually,” he said hurriedly, desperate to cling to you now that he found you again, “I wanted to show you something.”

You seemed to relax a bit, your eyes lightening and a soft smile pulling at your lips. “Yeah?” you asked. 

Azriel nodded, scrambling to put together this very last minute plan. “I want to take you flying.”

Your eyes widened, your body going rigid all over again. “Azriel—”

“Please,” he begged, taking another step closer. Then, softening his tone, voice pleading, he said again, “Please. I don’t know what I did wrong, but—”

“You did nothing wrong,” you hurried out, your hand wrapping around his wrist. Guilt flooded your face, and when your eyes started to glisten, Azriel didn’t hesitate before he pulled you into his chest. And when the first shudder rocked through you he only held you tighter, his hand rubbing up and down your back.

He reached for the key in his pocket, his other arm holding you to him while you cried, and he fumbled with the key in the lock before pushing your door open and guiding the two of you inside. “Honey,” he murmured into your hair, your face pressed against his neck that was now damp with your tears. He stroked the back of your head, your body only falling into him more.

“I’m sorry,” you rasped. You sniffed, your fingers clutching his shirt tighter before pulling back. You wiped at your face, your eyes swollen and red, and Azriel felt utterly helpless.

“For what?” he asked gently.

You looked at him incredulously, shimmying out of his hold and taking a step back. “For leaving you. I can’t believe I did that. I hate myself for just running away—”

“Hey,” he interrupted gently, his heart hurting for you. “It’s okay to need space.”

“But Azriel—”

“In the future,” he added on, “I would appreciate it if you told me that, though.”

You nodded, your cheeks damp and glistening from the tears that still slowly rolled down your face. “What happened?” he asked.

“I was scared,” you whispered, the words rough as they scraped your throat. “I am scared. I—” You closed your eyes, breathing in through your nose, and then back out. “I’ve never been in love.”

Oh.

Azriel was fairly certain he just felt the world shift a few degrees to the left.

“And I know it sounds ridiculous. I know I’ve been clinging to you since we met, since the mating bond snapped, but the other night, I just—I realized, I was in love with you. I am in love with you, and I think I would die if I ever lost you. And I started overthinking, worrying about everything I did, and I felt like I took advantage when that’s the last thing I wanted to do, and I just, I just spiraled, and I’m so sorry.”

“Take advantage?” Azriel knew that was not the most important thing you had just said, but he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stand the thought of you feeling guilty when you did nothing wrong, and he was going to fix that immediately.

Your throat bobbed, and he could feel your nerves racing down the bond, pummeling his heart with every wave that emanated from you. “Yes,” you said, voice small. “You decided to share something vulnerable with me and I attacked you—”

“Attacked?”

“Yes,” you argued, and he could see the shame and embarrassment heavy in your eyes. It made him nauseous. You threw your arm over your eyes, and said, “Azriel, I bit your bicep, for Cauldron’s sake.”

“Trust me, I remember,” he said, reaching out to pull your arm away from your face. “I remember liking it—more than that, actually.” He cupped your face in his hands, your skin warm against him. “Sweetheart, you made me come in my pants.”

You bit your lip, your entire face going hot. Azriel brushed his thumb over your cheek, wishing he could erase the last 72 hours of pain you had endured alone. “I’m the last person who would ever judge you—for anything.”

Your eyes fell to his lips, and he waited—waited for you to make the next move, and when you pressed your lips to his, he felt himself melt a bit, his soul somehow melding with yours more than it already had. You pressed a few more gentle pecks to his mouth before pulling away, your eyes searching his for something, a flicker of uncertainty lingering.

“You did nothing wrong,” he assured gently, his hand squeezing your hip. “Mating bonds make everything more intense, it’s natural.”

You nodded. “I guess I knew that in theory, just, experiencing it—” You sighed. “I’m sorry.”

Azriel smiled gently, pushing some hair out of your face. “It’s okay. We’re okay, I promise.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then pulled you into his chest, his arms wrapping around you and his shadows brushing against your cheeks once he finally let them go. “I love you,” he murmured into your ear, and the undiluted joy that rippled down the bond made him smile wider than he had in centuries.

~ ~ ~

Azriel was, in fact, a cuddly drunk.

At least, he was with you.

His mate.

Sue him.

How could he not be?

You were just so beautiful. You were warm and soft and loving. You smelled delicious, like freshly baked cookies. You were his love. His home.

And it was his birthday. If he couldn’t be handsy with his mate—well that would be a piss poor birthday.

Most importantly, you didn’t mind, and your opinion was frankly the only one Azriel cared about. So when you giggled as he tugged you into his lap, your eyes wide and bright as you pressed a kiss to his lips in greeting, Azriel did not give a damn about his brothers’ teasing quips from across the table.

He pressed a kiss to your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, smiling once his lips finally pressed to yours again. “Az,” you giggled, “I knew you would be a touchy drunk.”

Azriel hummed, his arms circling around your waist as he pressed your back to his chest, his nose nuzzling against your neck. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder where the strap of your dress had fallen down, then fixed it for you. “Just with you,” he murmured. Though, that wasn’t entirely true, given the way he had his arms thrown around Rhys and Cas earlier in the night. He kissed the pointed tip of your ear, smiling into your hair when you sucked in a sharp breath. “It’s okay, right?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t bothering you.

You turned your head to face him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Yeah, baby,” you said softly. “It’s okay.”

Azriel felt fuzzy—floaty in a way he almost never was from drinking. So maybe the alcohol coursing through his blood had dropped some of his usual inhibitions, but he knew that the buzzy and giddy warmth that was unfurling in his chest was entirely because of you.

“I think I want to go home,” he said to you, voice low in your ear.

“Are you sure?” you asked.

He nodded, his arms squeezing you once before letting you go, tapping your ass twice to coax you up and off his lap. He grinned when he watched you grow flustered, your eyes glaring at him playfully as you slid off his lap. 

“Heading home already?” Rhys asked as Azriel stood up, swaying a bit on his feet before your arm circled his waist. “Leave it to Az to be the first one to leave his own party,” Rhys taunted, mischief glowing behind his purple irises.

“Leave him be, Rhys,” Cassian said, leaning on the table as his eyes gleamed with anything but innocence. “He’s surely eager for Y/N’s gift to him.”

Azriel snarled at Cassian, pushing you behind him as his wings flared. Apparently, he was also a territorial drunk.

“Knock it off, Cassian,” Nesta growled, swatting his arm.

Your hand laced with his, his eyes snapping to you, who was watching his display with amusement. “Come on, birthday boy,” you said, tugging on his arm. “You can fight your brother another day.”

He cast another glare at a smirking Cassian, then let you lead him by the hand out onto the street. His steps were a little more stumbly than he would have liked, and he was certainly in no state to fly either of you anywhere, but you didn’t seem to mind as you held his hand in yours and walked toward your apartment a few streets over.

“I love you,” Azriel blurted.

You smiled, the moonlight washing your face in a pretty glow that made you look ethereal. “I love you too, Az.” You squeezed his hand, swinging your arms a bit. “I hope you’ve had a good birthday.”

Azriel nodded, a little too eagerly if your widening grin was anything to go by. “The best I’ve ever had.”

You laughed, leaning into his side, the two of your stumbling together before regaining your balance. “I doubt that. I have over five centuries of birthdays to compete with.”

Azriel shook his head, then brought your hand up to his lips to press a gentle kiss to your skin. “There’s no competition. None of them had you.”

He was a sappy drunk too, it seemed.

“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he went on, his words only slightly smushed together. “I love you. I love you so much I can hardly breathe. I cannot wait for the day you decide you want to accept the bond—at least, I hope you do. I want you for an eternity, my love.” The two of you were still walking hand in hand along the Sidra, your apartment building now visible in the distance, but Azriel kept rambling, “We can have whatever kind of mating ceremony you want. However big or small, I just want our friends and family there with us—if you even want a ceremony.”

“I do,” you told him, looking up at him with a smile on your face. “I definitely do.”

Azriel’s stomach fluttered, and he leaned a little more into you, his body relaxing into your touch as you neared your home. “Okay,” he sighed, relief and love and joy making him feel like he was floating. “I do too.”

~ ~ ~

It was entirely too bright, and this bed was entirely too empty. Azriel groaned as he turned his face into your pillows, the silk sheet set he bought you blocking out the sun for a brief moment.

Then he smelled food.

He pushed himself upright, his head throbbing a bit from the movement, and his eyes taking a moment to adjust. He was bare aside from his underwear, but he was still too warm in the morning sun. He shoved the covers from his body, his feet landing on the plush rug beside your bed as he stood up.

He followed the smell of bacon and cinnamon, the sound of pots and pans clattering growing louder as he opened your bedroom door and moved toward the kitchen. You were moving around in a flurry, your feet bare on the kitchen tile—your legs bare, aside from his far too large shirt that draped over your body. 

Your knee lifted the oven door after pulling a pan out, your hip pushing it the rest of the way shut as you sat the pan on top of the stove with a clang. You slide the oven mitts from your hands, brushing some hair out of your face as you let out a heavy breath. 

“Smells good.”

Your head whipped toward Azriel, your eyes going wide as he walked closer. Azriel’s heart pounded in his chest as he took in the spread of food across your kitchen counters. You were clearly in your element, and Azriel loved seeing you like this—but you had never cooked or baked for him before, for obvious reasons.

“What’s all this?” he asked as he peered at the pan of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls.

Your lips parted, your hands ringing together as you rocked back on your heels once. “Breakfast,” you said. A nervous smile pulling at your lips that made Azriel’s heart stall. “For you.”

“For me?” he rasped. “Y/N—”

“Only if you’re ready,” you hurried out, “but I know I am, and, after last night…”

Azriel’s cheeks went hot as last night replayed in his head, the way he clung to you and gushed about his love for you. He moved closer, crowding your space. “I’m ready,” he murmured.

Your face lit up, and Azriel’s hangover was long forgotten as you reached for the fork on the counter behind him. You scooped a piece of a cinnamon roll right out of the still steaming pan, and when you blew on the hot and doughy piece Azriel’s heart flipped. You were still smiling as you offered it to him, the fork slightly shaking from the nerves he knew were coursing through you.

His hand folded over yours and the fork, helping guide it into his mouth so he could take the first bite of the first meal his mate had made for him. He pulled the fork away from his lips, tossing it on the counter as he pulled you flush to him. “I love you,” he said, the words gravelly and choked with more emotion than he really knew what to do with.

Greeting new people usually comes with his gloved hands folded behind his back and a gentle nod, his wings are always tucked tight and elbows kept close to his sides so as not to brush elbows with anyone. Even his brothers—centuries spent in close proximity to one another—seem to know precisely when they can push it, and when they ought to steer clear. 

The closest thing she’s ever gotten to a hug from the male was the gentle brush of his shoulder against hers in thanks during a gift exchange last Solstice; she had known him for years at that point. 

Nesta—the nosey busybody—once asked Cassian how that (being Azriel’s aversion to touch) works when he used to come home smelling like a female in the mornings following a night at Rita’s. 

Rhysand and Cassian shared a knowing look before Cassian mumbled something about Az “running a tight ship” and then offered absolutely no follow up information (not for a lack of trying on Nesta’s part). 

So, it’s safe to say that none of them knew what to expect—how to react—when Azriel came home smelling like a bond and announcing—more like reluctantly admitting—that he met his mate. 

While Feyre and Nesta can hardly be considered having experienced a normal mating bond (whatever a normal mating bond may be), they’ve heard stories about perfect strangers meeting by chance in a market and embracing each other like…well…like two halves of a lost soul finally reuniting. 

But Feyre’s only seen Azriel hug his own brothers a handful of times over the years she’s been here, so she definitely couldn’t imagine Azriel wildly embracing his new mate on a whim in public. 

Needless to say, they were all on the edge of their seats, awarding Azriel with the privacy he needed, wanted, and deserved as he navigated his new mating bond while simultaneously itching to see how it might look. 

Tonight was finally their chance. 

“Does my hair look okay?” Cassian asks the room, running fingers through his wild locks in a show of insecurity rarely ever seen from the brute. 

“Why does it matter? It’s not like you’re meeting your mate for the first time,” Amren hums judgementally around the rim of her wine glass. 

Cassian narrows his eyes at the ancient being. “This is important, alright? I want to make a good first impression.”

Nesta snorts. “Well I wouldn’t worry then. You’ve never once made a good first impression.” 

“You guys are very mean,” Cassian huffs, giving up on the tugging of his hair. “I hope she’s nicer, maybe I’ll finally have a godsdamned friend in this house.”

“Hey,” Feyre laughs. “Come now.” 

Cassian softens. “Okay, fine; another friend besides Feyre.”

“Thank you,” she concedes. 

The room stills when boots sound on the terrace of the House of Wind, and it’s clearly an effort for the entire family not to stand simultaneously and rush the door to get a peak of you. 

The two of you appear in the doorway; Azriel’s wing extended behind your back like a gentle guide keeping you close to him. 

“This is my family,” Azriel explains softly, eyes travelling over the group of fae currently holding their breath. “Family, this is my mate.” 

Somehow, Azriel’s voice softens around the syllables of your name, making it sound like a note of a song or the gentle hum of a breeze. 

“Hello,” you greet quietly, nerves obvious though so is your excitement. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Rhysand welcomes first. “We’ve been wondering when Azriel might deign to share you with us.” 

“I…I feel like I should bow, but Azriel told me it was very important that I keep you humble,” you admit, knees clearly itching to bend when being greeted by the notorious High Lord of the Night Court. 

“Oh, thank the Mother,” Cassian sighs in theatrical relief. “I don’t think the rest of us will survive if his head gets any bigger.”

“My head is perfectly sized, thank you,” Rhysand huffs at his brother, softening his gaze when he turns back to you. “But there’s certainly no need to bow; we’re family.”

Your chest rises with relief and pride, and the corner of Azriel’s lips lift in time with it. 

“It’s nice to finally meet you all,” you state as your gaze drifts over the entire group, and Feyre can understand why Azriel seems to have a hard time peeling his gaze from you; you’re magnetic, your eyes so soft and so kind that you make every person feel like the most important person in the room just by looking at them. “I’ve heard so much about you all, it feels like I’ve already known you for centuries.”

Mor breaks first.

“Oh, I am so happy to meet you,” she all but squeals, racing towards you.

Feyre isn’t entirely sure what she expected to happen, but she certainly wasn’t expecting for you to step away from Azriel and meet Morrigan in the middle of the room in a tight embrace.

“You must be Morrigan,” you hum happily into her shoulder. 

“I’ll be whoever you want me to be, sweetheart,” Mor laughs, pulling away from you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Alright, my turn,” Cassian announces, all but shoving Mor out of his way to bring you in for his own embrace, though his involves lifting you off of your feet and eliciting a surprised oof out of you. Azriel’s wings twitch in subtle agitation. 

“Cassian, I assume?” you giggle.

“You’d assume correct, beautiful. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Alright, out of the way, you big bat.” Feyre swats at Cassian’s arms to release you, only for you to be transferred into her own. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Thank you for having me,” you murmur, quieter now, as though meeting her holds some extra weight.

She looks over at Azriel and his soft gaze confirms it: you were worried about meeting her. 

“The honour is really all mine,” Feyre assures you, pulling away only to hold you by your shoulders. 

She nods her head, really liking you for her brother-in-law. “As I’m sure you know, this is my husband Rhys. That there is my sister and Cassian’s mate, Nesta, and that’s Amren, Rhys’ second in command.” 

Azriel finally fully enters the room, moving to step up behind you as though a quiet anchor. Your shoulders subtly loosen at his proximity. 

“So, how has it been being mates with Azriel over here?” Cassian asks jovially, returning to his seat in the living room. 

“He’s perfect, really,” you tell them earnestly, smiling up at the Shadowsinger who’s turning a beautiful shade of pink. “I truly couldn’t have asked for better.” 

“Ah, so you’re a liar too,” Amren drawls with a roll of her eyes. 

Azriel looks like he’s trying not to do the same before gesturing for you to take a seat. “Ignore her.” 

“I hope she doesn’t lie to you anywhere else, brother,” Cassian continues, smiling when his quip is met with a lethal glare from said brother. “You know, like in the bedroom.” 

“Yes, thank you, Cassian,” Azriel deadpans.

“Oh, don’t worry Cassian, he’s perfect there too,” you respond quickly, surprising the room into silence as Azriel joins you on the—rather cozy—loveseat. “If you’d like some tips I’m sure I can convince him to let you watch.” 

Rhysand bursts into unrestrained laughter. 

“Mother above, where did you find this female?” Cassian sputters. 

The corner of Azriel’s lips turn up. “What? You think I warned her about Rhys and not you?” 

With this Azriel lifts his arm and places it along the sofa behind your head; Feyre holds her breath as you lean your head back on it.

Except Azriel doesn’t pull away. 

He doesn’t straighten, he doesn’t grit his teeth, he doesn’t make a quick excuse to get a drink. 

In fact, Azriel’s gloved hand drops from the back of the couch and onto your shoulder where he lovingly caresses the exposed skin near your collarbone. 

You turn at the touch, smiling up at him warmly which finds his shadows blooming with joy.

And then your hand lands on his knee. 

Feyre braces for impact again. 

It doesn’t come.

Well I’ll be damned, Rhysand drawls in Feyre’s mind. He’s a changed man. 

But Feyre’s not so convinced; she doesn’t think the softness of his eyes or the adoration in his smile or the dedication of his attention are necessarily new attributes, just largely unseen. 

I think she must just have a way of bringing it out in him, Feyre counters thoughtfully. 

“Who the fuck is this male and what have you done with Azriel?” Cassian hollers then, not nearly as subtle as the rest of his family. 

And who’s responsible for bringing that out of Cassian? Rhysand sighs silently. 

Mother only knows, Feyre sighs in return.

An Illyrian male, older, brutal by reputation alone. A reward for loyalty. A transaction dressed up as honorary. She was told it would protect her family that this was the way of things, that fear was merely the cost of being born female in a world that prized strength above mercy.

She didn't cry when she heard.

Crying would have meant hope. And hope, she had learned, was the most dangerous thing of all.

She ran away the night before the ceremony.

No jewels. No farewell. Only a blade she barely knew how to wield and a cloak stolen from a servant's peg. The city gates were unguarded at that hour, the sentries half-asleep and drunk on routine. By the time dawn broke, she was already bleeding--hands torn raw from climbing, lungs burning from running without rest.

She did not stop until the world narrowed to survival.

It was in a nameless village near the mountains that the idea took shape. Not all at once--nothing so dramatic--but piece by piece, stolen from overheard conversations and the way soldiers moved through the streets without being questioned. Men were allowed to be angry. Men were allowed to fight. Men were allowed to leave, to do as they please. Men were allowed everything.

Men were allowed to live.

The transformation was not elegant.

She cut her hair herself, hands shaking as the strands fell into the dirt. Bound her chest until breathing hurt. Learned to walk heavier, to take up space instead of shrinking from it. She practiced lowering her voice, roughening it with disuse and hunger, until it sounded passable enough to avoid scrutiny. Every movement became deliberate. Every instinct--rewired.

She chose the name Bran because it was simple. Because it did not invite curiosity. Because it could belong to anyone.

The Illyrian camps did not ask many questions. They never did. A body willing to bleed was more valuable than a story. She arrived thin, bruised, eyes too sharp for her age, and claimed she had nowhere else to go. The male who recorded her name barely looked up.

"Bran," he repeated, scratching it down. "You'll either last or you won't."

That night, lying on a thin cot among strangers who smelled of steel and sweat, she stared at the ceiling and felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

Not safety but possibility.

She did not know then who she would meet in those camps. Did not know how deeply a lie could root itself, or how dangerous it was to be seen for the wrong reasons. All she knew was that she had chosen survival over submission.

And for the first time in her life, the choice was hers.

Life as Bran was...surprisingly tolerable. Not easy, but tolerable.

The camp was brutal in the ways it had to be--cold stone or muddy floors, yelling instructors and commanders, rations barely enough to keep a body moving--but she noticed quickly that as a male, no one tried to push her around. She could exist without commentary, without the thinly veiled condescension women were trained to endure. She could sweat, bleed, curse, and no one would think twice.

Bran learned fast how to survive. He bathed in the river when he could, careful to hide himself behind a large rock or a cluster of trees. He learned to keep his hair very short and messy without it being suspicious, to mask softness in his hands with calluses, to lower his voice just enough that no one questioned it. Every meal, every manoeuvre, every training exercise was approached with the same quiet calculation: don't slip. Don't let anyone see the cracks. Don't give anyone a reason to ask too many questions.

Training itself was...merciless. Marching, running, lifting, weapons drill--all of it she could handle. But the hand-to-hand combat, the brawls, were the worst. They required too much proximity. Too much trust. Too much exposure. Every grapple, every thrown punch, made her pulse hammer in terror-not of pain but of discovery. One misstep, one too-close moment, and her secret would crumble.

And yet, she survived. Slowly, her body hardened. Her reflexes sharpened. Bran became just another soldier, at least one on the surface.

Until Cassian appeared.

He was brash, loud, and impossibly confident--exactly the sort of person she would have rolled her eyes at in any other situation. But there he was, leaning against the training wall, smirk in place as he flicked a short blade up and down in one hand.

"You," he called out, pointing at her, "yeah, you with the awkward stance. Ever consider fighting with style, or is that a full-time commitment to looking like you're about to fall over?"

Bran scowled. "I'll have you know I've almost mastered style. Just...not your style."

Cassian grinned, eyes lighting up like he'd found a new toy. "Oh, you got fire, huh? I like that. I'm Cassian. And you are?"

She hesitated, then gave the practiced name she'd chosen so carefully. "Bran."

"Bran, huh?" he circled her like a hawk inspecting prey--or maybe just a friend looking to annoy someone. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

Before she could reply with a pointed remark (or shove him into a mud puddle), a voice cut through.

"And I'm Rhysand," said the newcomer, with a polite smile that carried a hint of mischief. "And if you're going to let him harass everyone, I'll be the one to call him out. Pleasure, Bran."

Bran raised an eyebrow. "You're in on this too?"

Rhys only shrugged, perfectly calm while Cassian laughed like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all day.

Then there was the third. The quiet one. Shadowed at the edge of the group, observing rather than participating. His eyes were dark, sharp, and impossibly still. He spoke little, but when he did, his words cut through the noise.

"Don't encourage him too much," he said to Bran, nodding at Cassian. "He'll think he's invincible."

Bran blinked. Who...was this? He didn't smile, didn't laugh, didn't look like he belonged in the same circus. He simply...existed, watching, judging, interfering only when necessary.

"Bran," Cassian said, louder this time. "don't tell me you're intimidated by him already."

Bran scowled. "Intimidated? No. Just...annoyed. Very annoyed."

Rhysand smirked faintly. "He's Azriel. Don't let his quiet fool you. He'll have the last word eventually. He always does."

Bran groaned. Great. Two loud idiots and a quiet one who somehow made you feel like a misstep would end in public humiliation. And yet… despite all of it, there was a spark of amusement she couldn’t quite hide. The days as Bran had been tense, exhausting, and terrifying. But these three idiots… these three boys would make surviving camp slightly more bearable.

At least until one of them figured out she wasn’t actually Bran.

They days settled into a rhythm--somewhere between gruelling training and stolen moments of quiet--but Bran quickly realized she wasn't alone in her misery.

Cassian, Rhysand, and Azriel had taken it upon themselves to stalk her, or as they called it, "watch over" her. Bran didn't appreciate it. Not at all.

“You know,” she said one afternoon after being nudged into another push-up contest, “I’m starting to think I’ve been singled out for some cosmic form of punishment. Why am I the chosen victim of your constant stalking?”

Cassian leaned back on his elbows, grinning like the world was a playground and she was his favourite toy. “Because you’re… fun to annoy?”

"Fun to annoy?" Bran repeated, incredulous. "Do I look fun to annoy?"

Rhysand, ever the calm one, smirked faintly. "You're...different. Not in a bad way. It's refreshing."

Cassian’s grin widened like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this gem. “Alsooo,” he said, nudging Bran again with an elbow, “we just want to be friends. You’re the only guy who actually isn’t acting like- ” He paused dramatically, “like every other soldier who thinks training is a contest of ‘who can look the toughest while being completely insufferable.’”

Bran blinked, torn between exasperation and something else she didn’t recognize. Friendship? Not that she trusted the word just yet, but… she allowed herself a small, reluctant smile.

From that day, they followed her less like predators and more like...companions.

Training sessions became collaborative rather than competitive. Bran found herself laughing at Cassian’s ridiculous claims: “I’m going to be the greatest warrior of all time, probably the king of the skies too, and maybe invent a weapon that slices through literally anything”while Azriel rolled his eyes, muttering things like, “And pigs might fly, while we’re at it.”

Rhysand, surprisingly, was the voice of reason and sarcastic commentary all in one. "Try not to die while inventing impossible weapons, Cassian. The camp would miss you...barely."

Bran began to notice small things:

Azriel’s quiet attentions, subtle but intentional--he’d nudge her back into line during drills or be there in the shadows when she had trouble keeping pace.

Rhysand’s calm patience, the way he offered advice without making her feel incompetent.

Cassian’s energy, which was exhausting but strangely comforting.

She started feeling...something she hadn't allowed herself in years: normalcy.

It came out one night, around the fire, when the three of them were sharing stories of why they were in the camp--more like Cassian and Rhysand were sharing their stories while Azriel just watched--and what they hoped to be. Bran had just survived a particularly gruelling sparring match and collapsed into the dirt, listening.

Cassian talked first, of course, puffing out his chest as he kept loudly dreaming about his new glorious visions for himself...again. "I'm going to be the greatest warrior. Maybe I'll have my own squad one day. I'll be the hero everyone talks about in songs!"

Azriel, leaning against a tree, raised an unimpressed brow. "And you'll probably get yourself killed before breakfast."

Cassian laughed. "Details, details. Heroism is never tidy."

Then came Rhysand's turn, quiet as ever, voice low and smooth. “I was sent here by my father. Not… voluntarily. To train, to survive, and to prove myself.”

Bran tilted her head. “Your father?”

“Yes,” Rhysand admitted softly. “I am… not just another soldier. My family expects more of me. One day, I’ll… rule.”

Bran blinked. Prince. She almost choked on the word. For a second, the boy who had teased and joked with her every day seemed impossibly distant. But just as quickly, he leaned back, joking again, “And yes, I am still better at archery than both of you, so quit whining.”

Neither Azriel nor Bran spoke about why they are here, about their pasts. Maybe because the words felt too heavy, too sharp to be handled without drawing blood. Or maybe because some truths, once spoken aloud, refused to stay in the past and demanded to be lived through all over again.

The banter resumed as if nothing had changed, but Bran felt the shift. She was slowly, surprisingly, allowed into their world--not just as Bran, but as someone they trusted. Someone they wanted around.

Bran noticed Azriel most in quiet moments. He was slower to speak, slower to laugh, slower to let her in--but always there, just on the edge of the group. He watched, assessed, and sometimes, in the middle of training, would offer a word or a nudge that made her heart skip without her knowing why.

Cassian and Rhysand’s friendship was loud, full of jokes and jostling, but Azriel’s was quiet, deliberate, and far more dangerous because it made her feel… seen.

And Bran didn’t trust it. Not yet.

But every day, every laugh, every sparring match, every sarcastic comment and ridiculous boasting brought her closer.

Even if she still considered them infuriating little pricks.

The day had started like any other, crisp air, the sound of swords clanging, Cassian's obnoxious laughter echoing through the training yard. Yet something felt off.

Azriel hadn't shown up. Not once.

Normally, it wasn’t alarming. He disappeared into shadows often, brooding, wandering, doing whatever it was he did when he wasn’t training with them. But today… he hadn’t even met them at their usual routine--the stretch by the cliffs before breakfast, the morning sparring sessions, the practice run along the ridges where Bran, Cassian, and Rhysand would inevitably fall laughing into the mud.

"Have you...seen Azriel?" Bran asked, trying to sound casual as she wiped dirt from her hands.

Cassian shrugged, twirling a blade lazily. "He probably went ghosting in the mountains again. You know him."

Rhysand exchanged a glance with Cassian, hesitated. "Yeah...he tends to disappear for long stretches sometimes. It's...normal."

Bran frowned, frustration prickling her skin. "Normal?" She pressed. "How is it normal to just vanish for an entire day without anyone knowing?"

The two boys exchanged a glance. "He'll be fine. trust us, we have known him longer than you." Cassian said finally, but Bran wasn't convinced. Her stomach twisted into anxious knots she didn't usually allow herself.

By nightfall, she could no longer stand it. Every fiber of her being demanded she find him. Wrapping her cloak tight around her, she followed the familiar trail through the woods until the camp faded behind her, and the lake came into view. Its surface was frozen, moonlight glinting off the ice, and there he was--Azriel--sitting at the edge, unmoving, as if carved from shadow himself.

She hesitated, then stepped closer, boots crunching over frost, and sat a respectful distance beside him. Silence stretched between them, long and heavy, filled with all the words neither had yet said.

Finally, he stirred, looking at her with eyes that seemed to pierce straight through her carefully constructed mask. "Why are you here?" he asked, voice low, almost startled as if waking from a dream.

"You didn't show up all day," she said, softly, unsure if she was speaking to Bran or to herself. "And...I guess I just got worried. A little."

He scoffed, turning his gaze back to the frozen lake. "No need to worry for me. I can handle myself."

Bran’s chest tightened. She got up slowly, standing behind him, voice steady but tinged with emotion. “I know,” she said. “Believe me, I know better than anyone what it’s like to be trapped, to have no one care if you live or die. But… there are people who do care. Who would search for you. Who won’t leave you behind. I know that.”

He was silent, taking in her words. After a moment, he finally exhaled a long, tired sigh while staring at the stars. “Today,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “is the anniversary of my escape.”

Bran's heart stuttered. Escape? "Your...escape?" she asked cautiously.

He nodded, lips pressed into a thin line, and let out a cold, humourless laugh. "You think I had these shadows from the moment I was born?"

"No?" she whispered, shocked, unable to hide the awe and horror in her voice.

He glanced at her briefly, expression hardening. “My father… my stepbrothers… they locked me in a cell for years. Tortured me. Separated me from my mother. Thought they could break me. Thought no one would care.”

Bran’s chest tightened so painfully it was almost physical. The parallels to her own life--her escape, her family’s sacrifice, the constant weight of survival--hit her in waves. Carefully, carefully, she recounted her own story, twisting it to fit Bran’s persona, leaving out every detail that would betray her, every softness that would make him suspect.

For a long while, they shared silence again, letting the frozen lake hold their secrets.

Then came the voices--soft but insistent.

"Azriel? You up here?" Rhysand called.

Cassian's voice soon followed, teasing and loud, "Don't hide in the shadows forever. The world's missing your broody glare!"

Azriel only gave a small nod in response, and for the first time that day, Bran saw a faint shadow of a smile tug at his lips. As they headed back to camp, Bran moved to separate from the boys, but Rhysand's hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"No," he said firmly. "Come with us."

Bran raised an eyebrow, cautious. "Am I...allowed?"

Cassian laughed. "Of course you are."

Rhysand smiled. "My mother already knows about you. There's plenty of room in our house for you too."

Bran's eyes widened. "Your...mother?"

Azriel, for the first time ever, made a joke, voice low and dry: “Yes. And she makes the best meat pies in the entire world.”

Her chest twisted with unease, scepticism, and a flicker of fear. Yet the boys calmed her, insisting, guiding, and by the time she followed them, the warmth of their trust felt heavier than any weight she’d carried in years.

The house was… everything she had imagined a prince’s home would be, but somehow more understated. Stone walls and polished floors, tapestries that didn’t scream wealth but whispered it, rooms that were large yet intimate. She found herself marvelling quietly as they moved through the corridors, the firelight glinting in polished wood.

And then she met her.

Rhysand’s mother. She was luminous, serene, and powerful in a quiet, commanding way. Her smile when she saw Bran was warm, like she’d been expecting her all along.

“You must be Bran,” she said softly. “Rhys has told me so much about you.”

Bran’s throat tightened. Rhysand was the spitting image of his mother--same dark eyes, same easy charm. And yet, she could see the gentle warmth he reserved only for those he truly cared for.

And then… the youngest. Estelle. A bright, bubbly girl with a smile that immediately made Bran feel at home. She spoke freely, laughing with her mother and with Rhysand, asking questions, welcoming Bran as if she had always belonged.

Bran allowed herself to feel it--the warmth, the safety, the home. The food placed in front of her, the soft bed in a room just for her, the easy camaraderie. The friendship.

And for the first time in a very long time, she let herself think maybe… maybe she could belong somewhere, be herself, and not just survive.

But then everything changed.

It happened at dawn.

Not the slow, creeping kind that gave warning--but the violent kind, when the sky was still bruised purple and the camp lay half-asleep, weapons stacked, guards relaxed. The first scream cut through the air like a blade.

Then fire.

Spring Court colors flooded the horizon--greens too bright, magic too wild--soldiers pouring in waves, their war cries shattering the morning calm. Tents went up in flames. Steel rang. Orders were shouted and lost all at once.

Bran didn't think. She moved.

Her sword was in her hand before fear could catch her, body responding on instinct honed by months of punishment and repetition. She ducked beneath a blast of magic, rolled through mud and ash, and came up swinging. Training took over--feet grounded, strikes precise, breath controlled.

She didn't know where Rhysand and Cassian were, who they were fighting. But Azriel was there.

She didn’t remember how they ended up back-to-back, only that suddenly his presence was solid at her spine, shadows snapping and striking like living things. They moved as one--her blade flashing low and fast, his daggers ending fights before they began.

"Left," he muttered.

She pivoted, blocked, countered.

"Behind you," she warned, breathless.

He didn't look--just trusted.

The camp was chaos. Illyrians fought desperately, pressed back toward the cliffs that bordered the frozen lake. More Spring Court soldiers kept coming. Too many. Far too many.

They couldn't win this head-on.

Bran's eyes flicked upward--and then she saw it.

The ridge above the lake. Ice layered thick from weeks of cold. The magic blasts cracking the earth beneath it. One well-placed strike...

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

"Azriel," she shouted, grabbing his arm mid-fight. "The ridge. If we bring it down- "

He followed her gaze, understanding flashing instantly. "You'd bury all of us."

"Not if we time it," she said, already moving. "Cover me."

He swore under his breath--but nodded.

She sprinted.

Magic scorched the ground at her heels as she climbed, fingers burning from the cold, lungs screaming. She reached the ridge and drove her blade into a fracture already spreading through the ice. Another strike. Then another.

The world held its breath. Then the ridge gave way.

Ice, rock, and frozen earth thundered down in a roaring wall, swallowing the front lines of the Spring Court soldiers whole. Screams vanished beneath the crushing weight. The lake shattered, water exploding upward in a violent surge.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then cheers.

They had done it. She had done it.

Relief flooded her--too fast, too soon.

She turned to run back...and that is when the blast hit.

Magic slammed into her side, white-hot pain tearing through her body. She was lifted off her feet, thrown hard against stone. Something cracked--maybe bone, maybe more. Her vision blurred, blood warm against the freezing air.

She tried to crawl. Tried to stand.

Another blow grazed her shoulder. Her sword slipped from numb fingers. Azriel shouted her name, but it sounded distant, warped, like she was already underwater.

Her strength gave out.

The sky spun. The noise dulled. Cold crept in where fire had been.

The last thing she felt was the ground rushing up to meet her...and then nothing at all.

Azriel had survived worse fights. That was the cruel irony of it.

The Spring Court attack had been brutal, yes, tents reduced to ash, blood frozen into the mud, bodies carried away in silence, but the fighting itself had been familiar. Manageable. Something he understood. He had moved through it like he always did, shadows striking, daggers precise, instincts honed by years of violence.

What he did not understand was the hollow ache in his chest afterward.

The camp was a ruin by nightfall. Fires smouldered where laughter had once lived. Healers moved endlessly between stretchers, hands glowing, faces drawn tight with exhaustion. The wounded were everywhere, groaning, bleeding, clinging to life.

And Bran was nowhere he could see.

He knew where he was, of course. The healers had taken him immediately, carried him away among hundreds of others. Unconscious. Broken. Still breathing, at least, that was what Azriel told himself, over and over, like a prayer he did not believe in.

They sat on a bench outside the healer tents, the three of them. Cassian restless, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Rhysand unnervingly still, hands clasped, eyes dark with thought. And Azriel--silent, staring at the ground as if it might open and swallow him whole.

“He saved us,” Cassian said hoarsely, breaking the silence. “You know that, right? If he hadn’t--if he hadn’t done that- ” He cut himself off, running a hand through his hair. “Gods. That was insane. Brilliant. Completely reckless.”

Azriel swallowed.

Reckless. Yes. That was the word.

Bran had seen what none of them had. Had acted without hesitation. Had trusted that the earth and ice would fall exactly as needed--and it had. Hundreds of Spring Court soldiers buried beneath it. The camp saved.

And Bran nearly killed for it.

“He shouldn’t have had to,” Azriel said quietly.

Cassian stopped pacing, turning toward him. “None of us should have. But he did. And now he’s lying in a healer’s tent while we’re out here breathing.”

Rhysand exhaled slowly. “We can’t pretend this didn’t change things,” he said. “The camp won’t. The commanders won’t. Someone that young pulling off something like that?” He shook his head. “They’ll take notice.”

Azriel didn’t respond.

All he could see was Bran sprinting toward the ridge, jaw set, eyes burning with purpose. Could still hear the crack of ice, the roar of destruction. Could still feel the moment afterward, the split second of relief before the blast hit him.

Before Bran fell.

His hands curled into fists. He had covered him. He was supposed to protect those beside him. That was the rule. That was always the rule.

Footsteps approached.

Azriel’s head snapped up as a healer emerged from one of the larger tents. She was pale, exhaustion etched deep into her features. When she spotted them, she stopped--and bowed deeply.

“My prince,” she said, voice low. “We need to speak.”

Something in her expression made Azriel’s shadows stir uneasily.

Rhysand rose immediately. “Of course.” He glanced back at Cassian and Azriel. “I’ll be back.”

Cassian frowned. “About Bran?”

The healer didn’t answer. She simply turned and walked back toward the tent.

Rhysand followed.

Azriel stayed seated, but every instinct screamed for him to move, to follow, to do something. Instead, he sat there, helpless, listening to the sounds of the camp around him, to the groans and murmurs and crackling fires.

Waiting.

And for the first time in a very long time, Azriel realized something terrifying.

He was afraid.

Not of war.

Not of pain.

But of what he might lose--of what he already feared he cared about far more than he should.

Cassian broke the silence first. "He's going to be fine."

He dragged a hand down his face, pacing again. "He has to be."

Azriel didn't answer. His attention was splintered--half on the healer tents, half on the memory of Bran crumpling against stone. Every second stretched too long. Every sound scraped against his nerves.

Then it happened.

Both of you. Get here. Now.

Rhysand's voice slipped into Azriel's mind without warning--tight, controlled, unmistakably urgent. Azriel's head snapped up. Cassian froze mid-step.

They exchanged a single look and that was all it took.

They were on their feet immediately, striding toward the tent Rhysand had entered minutes earlier. Azriel’s heart began to pound harder with every step, dread coiling tighter around his ribs. He prepared himself for blood. For death. For the words we did everything we could.

The worst possibilities clawed at him. The tent flap was pulled aside. Inside, the air was heavy--too still.

Rhysand stood near the foot of a cot, arms crossed tightly over his chest, face pale and unreadable. A single healer remained, her expression grave. And there--lying motionless beneath thick blankets--was Bran.

Alive. Unconscious.

Azriel's breath hitched despite himself.

Cassian glanced around, confused. "Where are the others?"

Rhysand didn't answer. He only stepped aside.

The healer moved then, hands trembling just slightly as she reached for the blanket. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled it down.

Azriel's world tilted.

Bran's chest was wrapped tightly in bindings. Not bandages.

Bindings.

They were soaked through in places, darkened with blood, stretched tight enough that the shape beneath them was unmistakable. The rise of a chest that had never belonged to a male. The curve that months of illusion, posture, and discipline had hidden from them all.

From him.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Azriel couldn’t.

His thoughts scattered violently, crashing into one another--anger, disbelief, betrayal, horror, fear. His shadows recoiled, writhing, as if shocked into silence.

Female.

Bran was-

No.

She was-

Cassian’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he blurted. “You’re telling me Bran...Bran was a female this entire time?”

Azriel barely heard him.

His gaze was locked on her face, too pale, lashes dark against her skin, lips parted slightly with shallow breaths. Unconscious. Broken. Vulnerable in a way she had never allowed herself to be while awake.

She had fought beside him.

Trusted him.

Lied to him.

Anger flared--hot and vicious--followed immediately by something worse.

Fear.

She could have died. Had nearly died. Had gone into battle bound and bleeding and hidden, carrying a secret that could have gotten her killed long before today.

Azriel couldn’t breathe.

He turned sharply, stalking out of the tent before anyone could stop him. The cold air slammed into his lungs, but it didn’t help. His heart hammered violently, thoughts spiralling out of control.

Female.

All this time.

The jokes. The camaraderie. The quiet moments by the fire. The trust. The escape, she had said. Her voice echoed back to him now, twisted and raw.

He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal, shadows flaring erratically around him. Fury burned--but it had nowhere to land. Not on her. Not when she lay unconscious, broken because she had saved them all.

He had been fooled.

And somehow… that hurt more than the lie itself.

She woke to pain.

Not the sharp kind--but the deep aching weight that settled into her bones, made every breath feel measured and deliberate. The air smelled of herbs and smoke, of clean linen and old blood. Canvas rustled softly overhead.

A healer sat beside her cot.

Y/N froze.

Memory rushed back all at once--the ridge, the ice, the blast, Azriel’s shout. Her breath hitched sharply as awareness snapped into place, and instinct took over. She gasped and reached for the blanket, fingers trembling as she tried to pull it higher-

A gentle hand stopped her.

“There’s no need,” the healer said softly. “I already know your secret. You’re safe here.”

Y/N's chest rose and fell too fast. Slowly, she let the blanket fall back into place, exhaustion crashing into relief so heavy it almost hurt. She swallowed.

"...Did you tell them?" she asked, voice rough.

The healer hesitated--just a fraction.

"I had to," she said quietly, "he is the prince."

Of course.

Y/N closed her eyes, a long breath slipping out between her lips. So they knew. All three of them. The boys she had fought beside. Laughed with. Lied to.

Her fingers curled into the sheets. "Does anyone else know?"

Fear edged her voice now--real, unmasked.

She knew what the Illyrian camps were like. What they did to women who broke their rules. She knew she wouldn’t survive a single night if the wrong ears heard the truth.

“No,” the healer said firmly. “No one else. I swore silence, and so did the prince. You are protected.”

Y/N nodded, relief and dread tangling together.

“I’ll call the prince and his friends when you’re ready,” the healer added gently. “But first, you should know your condition. You’ve broken two ribs, suffered internal bruising, and lost a dangerous amount of blood. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Lucky.

Y/N let out a quiet, humourless breath. “How long… how long was I out?”

“Today is day three.”

She absorbed that in silence.

Then, after a moment, she said, “Okay.” Her jaw set. “I’m ready. Please tell them to come in.”

The healer studied her carefully. “Are you sure? You could rest. Take more time.”

Y/N shook her head. “No. I just want to get this over with.” Her voice dropped. “It’ll make my exile easier.”

The healer didn't argue. She only nodded and slipped out of the tent. Alone again.

Y/N stared up at the canvas ceiling, heart pounding, mind racing. She replayed every moment, every joke, every shared meal, every quiet look. She now braced herself for fury, for disgust, for disappointment.

For losing them all.

Footsteps approached and then the tent flap opened.

Rhysand first: calm, composed, eyes sharp but not unkind. Cassian beside him, expression conflicted, worry and disbelief warring across his face. And Azriel...

Azriel didn't look at her. Not once.

His jaw was tight, posture rigid, gaze fixed anywhere but on her. Shadows clung to him unnaturally still.

Y/N exhaled slowly. "...Well," she said hoarsely. "I suppose you caught me at last." A pause. "I am female."

Silence.

"Yes," Rhysand said calmly. "I know. And I have known this whole time."

All three of them froze in shock.

Cassian whipped his head toward Rhysand. "You--what?"

Even Azriel turned then, eyes flashing in disbelief.

Rhysand sighed lightly. “When you first arrived at the camp, I checked your mind. Without your permission,” he added, glancing at Y/N. “For security reasons. My father taught me to. I saw… everything. Your life. Your escape. Why you were here.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned. “Then why didn’t you tell them?” she asked quietly. “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

Rhysand met her gaze evenly. “Because I knew you would tell them yourself. Or circumstances would force the truth out.” A small, knowing smile curved his lips. “And because it was never my secret to reveal.”

Something in Y/N’s chest loosened, just a little.

Gratitude welled up, sharp and overwhelming. She nodded once, swallowing past the tightness in her throat.

The truth was out.

And nothing--nothing--would ever be the same again.

Y/N drew in a steadying breath.

"For the other two of you," she said quietly, gaze lifting to Cassian first, then--briefly--to Azriel, "who didn't know...let me explain."

Rhysand inclined his head once, giving her the space.

She stared at the tent wall as she began, as if the words were etched there already, waiting to be read.

"I was promised to a male before I ever knew what marriage truly meant," she said. "A political match. Convenient. Beneficial. And everyone told me I should be grateful."

Her fingers tightened in the blankets.

"I knew what he was," she continued. "What men like him do when no one is watching. I knew I would lose everything--my voice, my freedom, my body." A breath shuddered through her. "So, I ran."

Cassian's face softened, all humorous gone.

“I cut my hair,” she said. “Bound my chest until I could barely breathe. I stole clothes too big for me and learned how to walk, how to speak, how to exist as a male.” Her mouth curved in something bitter. “I saw the way the world opened for them. How they’re allowed to be angry. Loud. Reckless. How no one questions their presence...or their worth.”

She finally looked at them.

“I wanted that life. Not for glory. For survival.” Her voice wavered only once. “So, I became Brandon. And I never looked back.”

Silence stretched thick between them.

“I know you might feel anger,” she said softly. “Or betrayal. But you were the only real friendships I’ve ever had. The only place I felt… peace.” Her eyes burned, but she didn’t look away. “And even if it was brief--those moments meant everything to me. I will always be grateful for them.”

Cassian blinked.

Then he scoffed--not cruelly, but in disbelief--and shook his head. “Are you serious?” he said, stepping closer. “Angry? No. Shocked, yeah. But impressed?” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Absolutely.”

Y/N frowned slightly.

“You survived Illyrian camps,” Cassian went on, voice growing animated. “You fought beside us. You saved our asses more times than I can count. I’ve been yelling at commanders for years that this place needs female warriors, and they never listen.” He gestured at her like she was proof incarnate. “You just proved them all wrong--and they don’t even know it.”

A huff of laughter escaped him. “That’s- gods, that’s impressive.”

“Cool,” he added.

Azriel’s head snapped up.

“Cool,” Azriel repeated sharply. “Not cool.” His voice cut through the tent like a blade. “And certainly not something to praise.”

Cassian opened his mouth, but Azriel didn’t stop.

“You lied to us,” Azriel said, finally turning toward her fully. His eyes were dark, furious, not with hatred, but with something far more dangerous. “You built an entire false identity. You stood beside us under a name that wasn’t yours.”

Y/N lifted her chin. "I was going to be married off to a man who would've owned me," she said. "Who would've hurt me. Once I escaped, I had nowhere to go, to stay. This camp, as weird as it sounds, was the only place left."

"That doesn't change the fact that we trusted you," Azriel shot back. His voice rose--not shouting, but tight, restrained. "We shared our lives with you. Our histories. I considered you one of us."

"You still can," she said quietly. "I did this to survive."

"You don't get to decide that for us," he snapped.

Her patience finally snapped.

"No. You don't get to decide anything about this," she said, voice fierce now. "You have no idea what it means to be a female in this world. You don't get the right to speak freely. Or choose your future. Or even exist without being owned by someone else."

She held his gaze, unflinching.

"You don't get to be angry at me for doing what I had to do, because you'll never live what I have lived."

Something shifted. Just barely.

Azriel's jaw clenched. His fury faltered--not gone, but fractured. He looked away with a sharp scoff, crossing his arms.

"Whatever," he muttered.

Cassian broke the tension gently. "So," he said, softer now. "What's your real name then?"

"Y/N," she said.

The name settled into the space between them--real, vulnerable, irrevocable.

Rhysand exhaled softly, as if steadying himself.

"We need to get you out of here, Y/N. Before anyone finds out."

The words hit her like a blade.

She swallowed hard, heart plummeting. “Yes,” she said quickly, panic threading her voice. “I know. I- I understand. I’ve committed a vile mistake, and I accept the consequences, I need to be exiled, but please...just give me one day. One day to stand on my feet again and I’ll leave. I swear I won’t cause trouble.”

Rhysand blinked.

“Exiled?” he echoed, genuinely confused. “No. You’re not being exiled.”

She froze.

“I’m getting you somewhere safe,” he continued gently. “I’ve spoken with my mother. We both agreed--you cannot stay in the camps. Not now. Not ever again.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“There is a city in the Night Court,” Rhysand went on, careful with every word. “Far safer than this place. But my father resides there, and while he is just--while he is kind--he is also bound by tradition. If he knew your story, he would feel compelled to punish you. Severely.”

Her hands trembled beneath the blankets.

“So, for now,” Rhysand said, “I’ll send you to the Court of Nightmares. My cousin, Mor, will take care of you there. You will be protected. You won’t have to hide.”

The world tilted.

“You may decide where you wish to go afterward,” he finished. “What life you wish to build. But that choice will be yours.”

Y/N stared at him, stunned.

“I- ” Her voice cracked. “I don’t… I don’t even know how to repay you.”

“You don’t,” Rhysand said simply. “You live.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “Thank you,” she managed. “I- thank you, truly.”

“I’ll winnow her there.”

Azriel’s voice cut in quietly.

Everyone turned.

He stepped forward, extending a hand, not demanding, not rushed. An offering.

“I’ll make sure she’s settled,” he said, eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “Safely.”

Something unspoken passed between them: regret, shame, understanding. An apology without words.

She felt it.

And she took his hand.

Cassian cleared his throat, then grinned, though his eyes were warm. “Yeah,” he said. “And if anyone gives you trouble until then, I’ll break their legs. Politely.”

A breathy laugh escaped her before she could stop it.

For the first time since waking, her chest felt lighter. And for the first time since running, she wasn’t alone.

"...and that happened over four hundred years ago."

Silence.

Feyre, Elain, and Nesta stared at Y/N as if she'd just grown two heads.

Then Feyre blinked. Once. Twice. "...Whoa."

Y/N laughed, soft and bright, leaning back against the cushions of the River House sofa. “Yes,” she said. “Whoa.”

Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, catching on the Sidra beyond. Time had moved gently here--centuries folding into peace. Elain sat cross-legged on the rug, absently twirling a curl of Nyx’s dark hair around her finger as the boy dozed against her chest.

“And you just- ” Feyre shook her head, grinning in disbelief. “You just became a soldier?”

“A very angry one,” Nesta muttered dryly.

Y/N smirked.

Elain tilted her head, eyes soft. “And… did you and Azriel reconcile fully after that?”

Before Y/N could answer, Nesta snorted. “Obviously. Otherwise why would they be mates right now?”

Y/N rolled her eyes fondly, but her smile lingered. “It didn’t happen all at once,” she said. “It was… slow. Painfully so. Trust had to be rebuilt, brick by brick. Azriel needed time. I needed patience. And somewhere between shared silences, late-night training, and him learning how to listen instead of brood...” She paused, lips curving. “...things changed.”

Nesta scoffed. “Shocking.”

Feyre laughed and then looked at Nesta. “Well,” she said lightly, “looks like your mate did end up becoming the warrior-commander he once dreamed of being.”

Y/N laughed too, but then her expression softened, something tender and sad settling in her eyes as she looked at Feyre, then at Nyx.

“I just wish you’d met Rhys’s mother,” she said quietly. “And his sister. They were the kindest, most welcoming fae I had ever known.”

A hush fell.

Feyre swallowed. “I know,” she whispered. “Rhys has told me so much about them. But I believe they’re still here--with us.”

Elain hugged Nyx a little closer, smiling gently. “You really are one of a kind, Y/N.”

“You’re right about that.”

Azriel’s voice cut through the room as he stepped inside.

Y/N barely had time to turn before strong arms wrapped around her from behind, a kiss pressed to her temple. She leaned back into him instinctively, smiling as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Cassian followed, immediately dropping onto the arm of Nesta’s chair. “Are we telling war stories again? Because if so, I demand a rewrite. I was far more impressive than she made me sound.”

“You praised yourself enough in her version,” Nesta said sweetly.

Rhysand entered last, Feyre rising to meet him as Nyx stirred, murmuring in his sleep.

Laughter filled the room--warm, easy, earned.

Y/N let it wash over her.

Once, she had been a girl running for her life. A soldier hiding behind a borrowed name. A secret wrapped in armor and fear.

Now, she was surrounded by family--chosen and found. By love that had survived lies, war, and time itself.

She caught Azriel’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

୨ৎ An Honest Mistake┃4.4k 18+

Lonely and bitter following Gwyn and Balthazar's mating ceremony, you and Azriel sleep together. As it turns out, one night is all it takes to change everything.

୨ৎ Sweet and Strange┃4.5k

Weeks after a one-night stand with Azriel left you pregnant, Elain Archeron becomes an unlikely friend. When Azriel discovers your secret, you both must confront an uncertain future.

୨ৎ Topics of Conversation┃6.6k

A dinner with the Inner Circle triggers unexpected resentment. Back at your apartment, you and Azriel have a heartfelt talk.

୨ৎ Something to Lose┃2.6k

Azriel struggles with the weight of impending fatherhood after a political meeting turns personal.

୨ৎ Brave New Beginnings┃8k

Azriel's reluctance to be honest about his protective surveillance clashes with your confusion over his mixed messages, finally forcing both of you toward genuine communication.

୨ৎ Out in the Open ┃4.6k

During a quiet morning with Azriel, the reality of your pregnancy meets the one person you've been avoiding.

୨ৎ Partners in Crime┃2.5k

Pregnancy hormones, unrequited feelings, and family dinners don't mix well. Luckily, Azriel understands the art of a strategic exit.

୨ৎ A Mother's Home┃4.1k FAV!

You take a trip to Rosehall to meet Azriel's mother. The visit unearths more than you expected.

୨ৎ Learning Curve┃3.8k

On his mother's porch, you and Azriel find yourselves talking about forgiveness

୨ৎ Soft Spots┃2.3k

Ice cream nights and sweet confessions.

୨ৎ Growing Pains┃7.9k

Azriel grapples with his possessive instincts when you find comfort with a new healer, forcing him to confront what friendship actually requires.

୨ৎ Measurements of Progress┃3.9k

A bad day prompts you to call Azriel over. The afternoon leads to conversations about your romantic histories.

Current Word Count: 55.2k

BONUS CONTENT

ONE SHOTS:

୨ৎ Sweet Treats┃1.7k HALLOWEEN AU

Six months pregnant, you and Azriel celebrate your first Halloween together.

CHAPTER MEMES:

The Plot of 'Growing Pains' Summarized Through Memes

Moments from 'Measurements of Progress' in Meme Format

ASKS, DISCUSSIONS, AND THOUGHTS:

#Honestverse tag or #baby daddy!az

Azriel is itchy. It's an all-encompassing feeling, an anxious thrum to his very blood that makes his fingers twitch and his muscles ache. He hasn't had a moment alone with you in days, and it's worn his nerves thin. He's not sure when this snuck up on him- probably when the mating bond snapped, but even then he can't remember if he needed to be by your side so constantly, or if he just wanted to. It was probably both, and probably still is, which is why a whiff of your scent on the staircase to his bedroom makes him take the steps two at a time.

He opens the door quietly because that's who he is, but he thanks the mother for his natural spying abilities because you're passed out in his bed. You have your own room, two floors down and three hallways apart that feel like torture in the dead of night. But he loves it when he finds you like this, sprawled out over his massive bed in nothing but one of his shirts, legs tangled in his sheets and face pressed into his pillows.

Another one of his t-shirts is gripped in your fist.

It looks like you'd fallen asleep clutching it, and Azriel's heart nearly bursts in his chest, swelling an uncomfortable amount until he feels the need to clutch at it. He rubs at his pec, trying to ease the ache there until he breathes deeper and catches something heady in the air, a sweat-salty scent that deepens into a musk that makes his mouth water.

You smell like sex.

Not penetration- there's no lingering traces of Azriel's own lust between your barely-spread legs, nor, thank the mother, is there notes of anyone else's. He realizes with another layer of saliva coating the inside of his mouth, pooling there beneath his tongue that you'd made yourself cum, the fingers that aren't fisted in his shirt just barely poked beneath the hem of your panties. You smell clean, like you'd shuffled to his bathroom and wiped yourself down, but Azriel knows for certain that you'd fingered yourself in his bed, and he feels his cock stiffen against the unforgiving fabric of his training leathers.

His eyes rove over your sleeping form, your head nestled into his pillow, your hair trapped uncomfortably beneath your shoulders. Your occupied hand is holding his t-shirt just beneath your chin, and he has sudden visions of you holding it against your nose with your hips grinding against your fingers so dizzying he stumbles as he walks towards the bed.

He catches himself on the foot of the bed, breathing in the strong scent of what can't be described as anything other than pussy filling his nose. It's intoxicating, he has to swallow down that spit that's gathered on his tongue, begging to wet you. His forearms clench against the footboard and he eyes your panties, dragged back into place up your thighs from where you'd nudged them aside earlier.

He'd planned on finding you hunched over a book- sneaking a shadow up the back of your shirt and catching you as you flailed with a squeal at the way it would have tickled your skin. He was going to haul you into his arms, probably sideways or upside-down, just to see your eyes sparkle as you tried escaping the head rush. Then he'd have tossed you down on the bed and kissed you silly, all over the face, against your flushed cheeks, on the tip of your nose, in the crevice between your chin and chest as you desperately tried pinching your shoulders to your ears to evade him. It had never been his intention to walk in and pounce on you, he'd just fantasized about finally holding you after so many days of stolen kisses between errands, so many nights of crawling in bed and finding the other already asleep. But this- he can't ignore the smell coming from between your thighs, he can't stop imagining you pressing his shirt to your nose, he can't get the idea of you touching yourself in his bed out of his mind.

He blinks and realizes he'd sunk to his knees at the edge of the bed. Your feet are near his face, and he takes a brief few seconds to admire the pretty pink paint you'd chosen for your toes. He wonders once again when he'd fallen so deeply in love with you to be admiring your pinky toe, but he doesn't care and he takes your ankles in his scarred hands, gently pulling you down the mattress and making his shadows keep his pillow beneath your head. You don't wake, and the smell of your cunt hits Azriel ten times stronger now that it's mere inches away from him, your thin panties doing nothing to mask your scent.

You smell like you'd prepped for him. Like your orgasm hadn't been its own event, like you'd done it to open yourself up for his thick, long cock. It's what he has to do most nights to prepare you, and his teeth dig sharply into his lower lip at the thought of you imagining your fingers were his own rough ones.

He feels divinely lucky to be able to press his lips to your calves, sliding his shoulders beneath them and nestling his nose into the thin skin behind your knee. He kisses there for good measure, just to tuck his love into a spot he doesn't usually get to, and drags his nose along your thigh, lips parted as a hot, ragged sigh melts against your skin.

There's traces of your arousal on your thighs. You'd cleaned yourself up, but you'd probably done it in a hazy, sleepy hurry, missing splotches here and there along your legs where your sticky fingers had brushed accidental smears of wetness or you had simply leaked past your knuckles and soiled the bedsheets. He has to clench his eyes shut not to cum at the thought, using every ounce of willpower he possesses to shove his impending orgasm down before he even tastes you. He drops his head to your stomach in desperation, his nose pressed against your clit as he breathes in the heady smell of your clean, wet, ready cunt.

it doesn't help him gain control of himself, but it's so fucking intense, so fucking sinful that he can't pull himself away. You don't stir at all- you must have really tired yourself out earlier, so he takes a moment to press his forehead against your pelvis, thanking the mother in a silent prayer that he gets to have every inch of you flush against his mouth like this. He puckers his lips and kisses against the fabric of your underwear, feeling your sex beneath it, warm and semi-stiff with lingering arousal. Your lips are parted and he nearly forgets your panties are even there, the urge to burrow straight into your cunt with his tongue so strong.

He tests the waters by pressing a few more sweet kisses to the pad of your panties, and when a soft sigh escapes your mouth he has to freeze once more, teeth bared and hands clenched in the comforter at your feet. He grunts with the effort of restraining his orgasm, panting slightly as he opens his eyes again and wills his hands steady to remove your underwear.

The smell of the cotton covering your cunt is gone, and a gush of saliva floods Azriel's mouth. He sighs reverently at the sight of your pussy, still swollen from your former orgasm and he wastes no more time before sticking the tip of his tongue past his lower lip, leaning in to swipe it gently up through your primed cunt.

He has to jam a hand over his bulge the second he tastes you. He has to touch himself, he can't take the maddening lack of stimulation as every other sexual fuse in his body is lit. He smells sex, he sees sex, he tastes sex, he even hears it in the slick of his tongue against your folds and the way your breathing quickens in your sleep. But he doesn't feel it, and he squeezes himself through his leathers so viciously he's surprised he doesn't injure himself.

He's digging his palm into his groin to satiate his need for touch, but the real pleasure comes from dragging his tongue in fat, wet stripes through your bared cunt. You're clearly ready for a second orgasm, your pussy responding quick to his tongue and shining with hot wetness as soon as he gets a steady rhythm going. He groans as your arousal bleeds onto his tongue, burrowing it further into your sex, pushing it as far as it can go into your pussy and flicking it there to draw a broken whimper out of your mouth. His nose digs into your clit and he pulls back to pant against your labia, lips pressed to your sex even when he's coming up for air. You're still sleeping, but you're reacting to his touches, hands squirming and inadvertently knocking his shirt back over your face. He has to concentrate on loosening the clenched tightness of his jaw so that he can lick you again, tongue laving against you before breaching your slit and dragging your leaking arousal up towards your clit. He scoops it onto his tongue there, flicking the tip of the muscle against your clit in a way that makes you nearly sob in your sleep. Your thighs begin tightening around his head, pressing against his ears so that sound is muffled, but he doesn't need to hear you to know you're beginning to stir.

He unclenches his hands from the bedsheets to grab hold of your hips, pushing forwards beneath your thighs to seal his open mouth against your cunt. He plunges his tongue inside, wriggling it further and further until it's nestled in that tight spot again, squeezed by warm wetness that pulses to the beat of your heart. He begins working it in and out, in and out, in and out until you wake with a startled cry- something Azriel doesn't see but feels as your hands fly to his hair and yank. The mating bond between you sings with pleasure as he ravages you, pure, unadulterated bliss washing over him at the feeling of you clamping your thighs shut on his face, pulling his hair and pulsing around his tongue. He doesn't let up as your orgasm begins, and soon your fingers curl against his scalp, scratching and holding him in place instead of tugging him off. He fucks your pussy with his tongue, his nose nudging your clit until you're twitching rather than riding, overstimulation beginning to take hold. When you begin pulling again at his hair he reluctantly breaks himself away, realizing belatedly that some of the bliss he'd experienced in the moment had been his own orgasm, his palm sticky and his leathers stained.

He honestly hadn't noticed.

"Azriel," You pant, his shirt laying crumpled on your stomach where it had fallen when you'd shot upright. You stare down at him with wide, hazy eyes, noticing the sheen of bliss spread over his own hazel ones. He's covered in your slick, his chin and cheeks glistening, his nose reddened and his breathing heavy. His chest heaves as he drags in lungful after lungful of air, of your scent, of sex, shoulders remaining steady beneath the weight of your thighs despite the post-adrenaline crash beginning to hit the two of you.

He looks like sex incarnate, and it's making you want another round before you can even clean this one up.

"Sorry for waking you," Azriel pants, the words falling hot against your skin and making you jolt as the air hits your sensitive cunt, "I saw you sleeping with my shirt, and I smelled you- I put two and two together."

"Oh." You recall your pre-nap endeavors, your fingers pressed together between your legs in Azriel's bed, and heat rushes to your face, "I'm- I'm sorry, that wasn't very... polite of me."

Azriel scoffs, nothing but another gust of hot breath against your kissed thighs, "I don't care. Actually- I do. I want you to do it again. Whenever the urge hits you," Azriel begins standing, taking your legs in his palms and lifting them with him so that your feet rest beneath his chin, both of your ankles circled by one of his hands as he holds your legs in the air, "Come to my room and do it in here. Use my shirts, use my leathers, I don't care. Get it on the sheets." Azriel dips down to kiss against the bone of one of your ankles, then tilts his head to kiss the other, "Make such a mess of yourself that the room reeks of your cunt. I walked in and I almost passed out," He recalls, clenching his teeth and trying to calm his voice from the growl it had become, "Don't deprive me of seeing you like this."

Your eyes are wide and your cheeks are flushed. Azriel is beautiful, and he's in love with you, and he's telling you to fuck your fingers so good you leak all over his bedsheets. Your head is spinning and your core is throbbing, and you feel the still-prominent bulge in Azriel's trousers brush up against your exposed core as he keeps you folded in half against him, your breath hitching and your mouth watering.

"Please?" He asks, and you realize you've never answered him, nodding jerkily against his pillows.

"Okay." You answer obediently, willing to do whatever it takes to make Azriel happy, to please him, and his eyes roll back in his head, lashes fluttering and eyelids falling shut at the sound of your compliance.

"Thank you," He manages, reverent, polite, proud, as his shadows slip beneath your arms and begin dragging you back up the bed, "Which hand did you use?"

You brandish your fingers at him as he fumbles with the clasps of his leather pants, shucking them as fast as possible and kneeling before you on the bed, cock hard and heavy and waiting.

The question lands like a stone in my chest, sending my heart into a frantic rhythm. His voice is steady—too steady. Like he's been awake all night just waiting to ask.

I blink at him tiredly, feigning confusion. "What?"

Azriel doesn't waver. "You didn't come. Why'd you fake it?"

Blunt. Direct. The weight of his stare alone is enough to pin me in place. He's clearly been sitting with this, turning it over in his mind, dissecting it in that way only he can. And now, he wants answers.

"I—I didn't—"

He tilts his head slowly, and my breath catches. Not a word passes his lips, but the movement alone is enough of a warning.

"Try again, love." His shadows swirl around us despite the morning light filtering through the curtains.

I stay silent.

Azriel exhales, his grip on my waist flexing. "I've been up all night trying to figure out why you'd feel the need to fake something like that. Especially with me." His voice is soft, but it cuts through me all the same. "And I can't. So tell me—why?"

"I didn't want you to feel bad," I murmur, barely above a whisper. "You treat me so well, all the time. I didn't want you getting hung up on this one night."

But here we were—doing exactly that.

His jaw tightens, tension carving sharp lines into his face. The early morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, but there is nothing soft about the way he's looking at me. Still, his hands find mine, fingers intertwining. The roughness of his scars against my skin is familiar. Comforting.

"Do you think so little of me?" The words are quiet, but no less devastating.

"No." I snap my gaze to his, panic flickering in my chest. "No, never, Az."

His thumb skims over my knuckles before he brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there. "Then why lie?" he asks, the warmth of his breath lingering. "Do you not trust me to take care of you? Do you not want me to?"

His voice dips lower, and my stomach clenches. He truly had to be thinking about this all night to draw up these conclusions.

"I do," I rush to reassure him. "Of course I do. I was just—I was tired, that's all." I lean closer, brushing my lips against his in a gentle kiss.

He doesn't pull away. Doesn't let go of my waist. But when he tilts his head, the look in his eyes shifts into something sharper. Something hungry.

"You tired now?"

His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time. Slow, deliberate, teasing.

I exhale softly. "No."

Azriel mirrors my smile, but there's something different about his. Something sharper. More feral.

"Good."

And before I can react, he's got me beneath him, arms pinned above my head, a wicked gleam in his hazel eyes.

A gasp catches in my throat as Azriel moves, fast and fluid, flipping me beneath him before I can so much as blink. My wrists are pinned above my head, his scarred fingers wrapped firmly around them, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.

His wings flare slightly, blocking out the golden slant of morning light, leaving nothing but the two of us in the shadows. His shadows.

They curl around his frame like living threads of darkness, writhing in time with his slow, deliberate breaths. The way he looks at me now—hazel eyes molten, jaw tight, lips slightly parted—sends a shiver down my spine.

"You really thought I wouldn't notice, didn't you?" His voice is low, rough, but not angry. No, the way he says it—the way he watches me squirm beneath him—is something else entirely.

I swallow hard. "Azriel, I—"

"You were exhausted." He hums as if considering my excuse. "Didn't want to hurt my feelings." A soft scoff leaves him, his nose brushing the shell of my ear. "What a sweet little lie."

I shudder, my fingers flexing uselessly beneath his grip. "It wasn't—I just—"

"Didn't think I could handle the truth?" He trails a hand down my side, fingers whispering over the thin fabric of my nightgown, tracing every dip, every curve. "Or did you think I wouldn't take care of you properly?"

I shake my head quickly, but he catches my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look at him.

"You know I don't like being lied to, love," he murmurs, voice silken and dark. "Especially not about this, you forgot though."

His thumb drags over my bottom lip, and my breath hitches. He watches me, eyes burning, gaze sharp enough to cut.

"Let's fix that, yeah?"

His grip on my wrists tightens just as his free hand moves lower, skimming over my stomach, my thighs—slow, teasing, deliberate.

"You're going to be honest with me from now on." A soft kiss, barely there, pressed to my throat. "You're going to let me take care of you the way I always do." Another kiss, lower this time, lingering over my pulse.

"And you, love," he whispers, teeth grazing against my skin, "are going to learn exactly what happens when you try to keep something like that from me."

His shadows coil around my ankles, holding me in place, and then—

I lose the ability to think.

"Az," I breathe, my body arching instinctively beneath him, trying to chase the warmth of his touch. But he holds me still, his fingers barely skimming where I need him most, his shadows curling tighter around my wrists and ankles like they, too, are in on his cruel game.

Azriel hums, amused. "You sound a little desperate, love."

I glare at him, but it's hard to make it convincing when I'm squirming beneath him, my pulse racing, my breath coming too fast. "You're being cruel."

His lips curl at the accusation. "Am I?" His fingers dance along the edge of my nightgown, slipping just beneath it before retreating just as quickly, his touch featherlight. "Seems to me I'm just teaching a valuable lesson."

"You're insufferable."

Azriel chuckles, the sound low and sinful, sending a ripple of heat through me. "You weren't saying that last night."

Heat floods my face. "Maybe because last night, you weren't tormenting me."

His brows lift, feigning innocence. "And yet you didn't come. Seems to me you like the tormenting." He dips his head, kissing a slow, searing path along my collarbone. "But if you'd prefer, I could stop."

A smirk plays at his lips as he starts to pull away as if testing to see just how desperate I really am.

I scowl, tightening my legs around his waist, locking him in place. "Don't you dare."

His laughter is warm against my skin, and the next thing I know, his fingers are on my thighs, tracing slow, torturous circles. "That's more like it," he murmurs approvingly. "Now, tell me, love—" his lips ghost over the shell of my ear, his voice nothing but a delicious rasp, "—you going to fake it again?"

My brows furrow as I peer up at him through my lashes.

"No," Azriel grins, wicked and knowing. "I'm not going to stop until you're too wrecked to even think about faking it again."

A sharp inhale. A rush of heat.

His hands tighten, and his voice drops to a whisper, his words dripping with sinful promise.

His fingers move with calculated precision, unbuttoning my top one slow pop at a time. I help him shed it, my own hands sliding beneath his shirt, mapping the warm, golden skin stretched over taut muscle. The ink of his tattoos shifts under my touch as he pulls the fabric over his head and tosses it aside.

I lean in, capturing his lips, but he meets me halfway, claiming my mouth with a hunger that steals my breath. His tongue sweeps past my lips, exploring greedily, and I moan softly into him.

Then, suddenly, my wrists are pinned to the mattress, bound by the whisper-soft strength of his shadows. A gasp catches in my throat, my body instinctively tugging, but it's futile. Azriel merely smirks, his fingers skating down my sides, toying with the band of my panties, the heat of his touch sending sparks across my skin.

I lift my hips in a silent plea, urging him on, but he only chuckles, slow and deep. "Patience, love," he chastises, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric.

"Please," I whisper, desperate.

Azriel hums in approval but moves achingly slow, peeling the lace from my body like he has all the time in the world. His knuckles brush against my thighs as he drags them down, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

"I want you to feel everything," he murmurs, lips ghosting over my collarbone, where a faint mark from last night still lingers. A reminder. A promise.

"Az," I whine, shifting against the restraints, needing more, needing him.

He tsks, dark amusement glittering in his hazel eyes. "I know, I know," he coos, dragging his mouth along my skin, teasing me with every slow, lingering kiss. "But you can be patient can't you?"

I nod, breathless, eyes locked onto his as he trails lower.

"Good," he praises, but his voice dips into something more commanding. "And you understand I can't reward your bratty behavior?"

"Yes," I whisper.

His brows arch. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

Azriel's smirk is wicked, his satisfaction rolling off him in waves. "There's my girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my stomach before lowering himself further between my thighs. "Now stay still for me, yeah?"

I nod, back arching as I ready myself.

His breath is warm against my skin, teasing, taunting, and when his lips ghost over where I need him most, a helpless whimper spills from my lips. I tip my head back into the pillows, unable to watch, unable to handle the way he's taking his time, savoring the way I fall apart beneath him before he's even truly touched me.

"Sweet girl," he murmurs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "So needy. Just couldn't get off, could you?"

I shake my head pitifully. "No," I manage, my voice barely above a breath.

He clicks his tongue, pressing a featherlight kiss to my inner thigh. "It's okay, love," he murmurs, and then his grip tightens on my hips, holding me still as he finally, finally drags his tongue through my slick folds.

A choked moan tumbles from my lips, my back arching further off the bed, but his shadows keep me grounded. He hums in approval against me, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat coiling low in my stomach.

"Azriel," I moan, writhing, tugging uselessly at the darkness binding my wrists. "Please."

He smirks against me but doesn't answer, just hikes one of my legs over his shoulder, deepening his assault. His tongue flicks over my clit with precision, his mouth sealing around the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking just hard enough to have me keening.

I can't move. Can't grind against him, can't chase the pleasure building inside me—because he's making sure that my release comes entirely from him.

That realization has me spiraling even faster.

"Az—Azriel, please," I gasp, my thighs trembling as the coil tightens, winding impossibly tight.

His grip on my hips bruises, his scarred fingers pressing into my skin as his tongue circles my clit again and again.

"Go ahead, love," he rasps against me, his voice thick with satisfaction. The vibrations of his words against my swollen, aching cunt are all it takes to send me over the edge.

I shatter, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as my orgasm crashes through me, my body locking up before melting into the mattress. My vision whites out, pleasure consuming me in wave after relentless wave.

Azriel doesn't stop. Doesn't let up. He guides me through it, slow and deliberate, savoring every aftershock.

"There it is," he murmurs, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss to my sensitive folds before glancing up at me, utterly wrecked beneath him. "My girl looks so pretty when she comes."

The flat of his tongue gathers my arousal on his tongue, cleaning me. A soft, broken whimper is the only response I can manage.

But Azriel isn't done. Not yet. Not until I've learned my lesson.

I panted softly, still trembling as he kissed his way back up my body, his mouth hot and unrelenting against my flushed skin. Every inch of me is still humming from the waves of pleasure he's wrung out of me.

His lips trail over my breasts, pressing a kiss to one before he takes the stiff peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling in slow, torturous circles. The same tongue that had just shattered me now teases and soothes in equal measure, and I bow into his touch, a soft gasp spilling from my lips.

"Azriel," I rasp, tugging against my dark restraints.

His shadows hold firm, but he lifts his gaze to me through his lashes, those hazel eyes molten with desire. My breath catches, and I swear I feel the heat of his stare everywhere. His tongue flicks against my nipple, sharp and purposeful, and my thighs instinctively fall back open for him.

He smirks, releasing my breast with a wet pop before kissing his way up, up, until he finds my lips. He swallows my soft whimper as his tongue slides past my lips, letting me taste myself on him. The intimacy of it makes my head spin, and I kiss him back greedily, nipping at his lower lip when he pulls away.

His breath is warm against my mouth as he murmurs, "Inside?"

"Yes," I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I need you inside me."

His lips quirk up in a lazy, knowing smile. "Yeah? You need it?"

"Please," I whimper, my desperation laid bare.

Azriel hums, kissing me again, slow and deep, before pulling away. The sound of his belt unbuckling, the rustle of fabric as he shoves his pants down—it sends a thrilling pulse of anticipation through me.

I was so attuned to him, his sounds, the feel of him. The heat of him between my thighs, the way he strokes himself once, twice, teasing me with the promise of what's to come.

Then he's there, pressing the thick head of his cock against my slick entrance, and I nearly sob with need.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dark with satisfaction as he teases me, sliding just the tip inside before pulling back. "So wet, so ready—"

"Az," I whine, my hips tilting, seeking him.

His hand presses down on my stomach, holding me still. "You take what I give you, love. Nothing more."

I moan at his words, at the sheer dominance in his tone, and then he pushes in, stretching me inch by inch until he's seated fully inside me. He takes his time, driving me wild in the process, each slow thrust pulling a desperate sound from my lips. My walls flutter around him, trying to draw him deeper, but he holds himself back, teasing, torturing.

By the time he finally sinks to the hilt, I'm panting, trembling beneath him, my body molded perfectly to his.

A low groan rumbles through his chest, his head dropping to the crook of my neck as he rolls his hips once, dragging a sharp gasp from me. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "So tight. Always so fucking perfect for me."

I whimper, my body adjusting to the delicious burn of being so completely filled, stretched to the limit around him.

Azriel pulls back slowly, almost entirely, before thrusting forward again, his pace agonizingly slow, like he's savoring the way I squeeze around him.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice dark, wicked. "How deep I am?"

"Yes," I pant, my wrists straining against my restraints, desperate to touch him, to claw at his back, to do anything other than lie there and take it.

But that's exactly what he wants.

He rolls his hips again, dragging himself against that spot inside me that has my toes curling, my back arching off the bed.

"You lied to me, love," he reminds me, his tone thick with amusement, with something darker, more possessive. "So now I get to decide how long you last."

A whimper slips from my lips, and he chuckles, low and satisfied.

"You'll take what I give you," he murmurs, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me still even as I writhe beneath him. "And you'll thank me for it."

Then he pulls back and thrusts into me hard, setting a punishing rhythm that steals the breath from my lungs.

He grips my thighs, spreading me wider, fucking into me so deep I swear I can feel him everywhere, in my bones, in my blood.

"So good, you're always so good for me," he groans, his voice rough, barely held together. His restraint is a fragile thing, and gods, knowing I could break him with a single plea makes me throb around him.

"So cruel of me," he muses, his thrusts slowing, dragging out my torture, "to come inside this pretty pussy last night without making sure my girl got her release, hm?"

All I can do is whimper, my head tipping back, body trembling as he fucks me slow, deep, each deliberate roll of his hips making me feel every inch of him.

The rhythmic sound of the bed slamming into the wall and his low, guttural grunts fill the room, the air thick with heat, with the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into me. I bite into my lower lip to stop myself from sounding so damned desperate, but we both know—Azriel knows—just how wrecked I am.

The proof of it is between my thighs, soaking his cock, dripping down onto the sheets.

His hand slides down my stomach, his fingertips ghosting over my clit, not quite touching, just enough to make me sob in frustration.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice full of wicked delight. "Fucking dripping for me." His thumb swipes through my slick folds, pressing teasingly just above where I need him most. "So messy, love. So needy."

I whimper, arching into his touch, desperate for relief.

Azriel tuts, shaking his head. "Oh no, sweetheart. You don't get to come yet."

I whine, a broken, desperate sound, and he just chuckles, pulling his hand away entirely.

"You wanted to lie to me," he reminds me, his lips brushing over my jaw as his cock twitches inside me. "Now you get to feel what it's like to be left aching, desperate, needing."

I sob, my head thrashing against the pillow, but he just keeps fucking me, slow and deep, making me take every inch of him without giving me a single ounce of relief.

I fucking love it.

Azriel smirks against my throat, dragging his lips down the column of my neck, his cock still buried deep inside me, thrusting slow, deep, controlled. My body is writhing beneath him, my nails digging uselessly into my palms as his shadows keep me bound.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, nipping at the spot just below my jaw, his tongue soothing over the sting. "You sound so fucking desperate."

I whimper in response, my thighs trembling, my cunt clenching down around him in a futile attempt to pull him deeper, to coax him into fucking me the way I need.

He chuckles, low and dark, dragging his cock out so slow before sinking back in, every inch stretching me open again, every movement meant to drive me insane.

"You said you'd be good for me," he muses, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Said you understood why I had to punish you."

I nod frantically, my breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, the angle perfectly devastating.

"Then why," he murmurs, his lips brushing over my ear, "are you whining like a slut, love?"

A full-body shudder rolls through me at his words, and he laughs—a wicked, pleased sound—because he knows exactly what that does to me.

"Oh?" His grin is evident in his tone. "You like that?"

"Azriel," I rasp, my voice ruined, my body burning.

"Sir," he corrects smoothly, his hand wrapping around my throat, applying just the lightest pressure.

"Sir," I breathe, and fuck—I shouldn't be this turned on, shouldn't be this gone just from the way he's talking to me.

He hums in approval, dragging his nose along my cheek before whispering, "That's my girl."

And then he stops moving.

I let out a cry, bucking my hips, desperate for anything, but his grip on my throat tightens just slightly as a warning.

"Ah, ah," he tuts, shaking his head. "You'll take what I give you, remember?"

"Yes, sir," I whimper, my head falling back.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip. "Such a good girl." He tilts his head, pretending to consider something. "Maybe I should make you beg for it properly."

"I—" My voice catches as he barely rolls his hips, just enough for me to feel him inside me without giving me any real relief.

"I think I will," he murmurs, his thumb pressing against my lips. "Go on, love. Beg."

"Please, sir," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He tuts, shaking his head. "Oh, sweetheart, you're not even trying. You know you can do better than that."

He pulls out entirely, making me sob in frustration, in unbearable, aching need.

"Again," he commands, his tone all silk and steel.

"Please," I gasp, my back arching, my legs trembling. "Please, sir, I need you so bad, I—fuck—I can't—"

He groans, his cock twitching against my entrance, and finally—finally—he slams back inside me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

"That's it," he praises, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that has my nails digging into my palms, my mouth falling open on a soundless moan. "That's my fucking girl."

I'm ruined beneath him, my body alight with pleasure, with torment, with the unbearable need to come. And he knows.

His hand drops between us, his fingers finding my clit, and I wail, my body bowing off the bed as he circles the swollen bud with just the right amount of pressure.

"You wanna come, love?" he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin.

"Yes, sir," I sob. "Please, please, please—"

His pace falters, just for a second.

"Fuck," he rasps, his cock twitching inside me. "You sound so pretty when you beg for me."

"Then please," I cry, the pleasure coiling so tight I can't take it anymore.

He presses his forehead against mine, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate.

"Come for me, love," he breathes. "Now."

And fuck—I shatter.

My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body seizing, my back arching, my walls fluttering wildly around him as I scream his name.

But Azriel—he doesn't stop.

Not even for a second.

"That's it," he growls, his fingers still working my clit, dragging my pleasure out, making my body shake, making me wail. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

My body jerks, as my breath stutters and my thighs tremble violently from the sheer intensity of my release, he just keeps going.

"Too much," I gasp, my body writhing beneath him, every nerve ending alight with unbearable pleasure. "Sir—"

His hand tightens around my waist, his hips still slamming into me, his cock dragging against that spot inside me that makes my vision white out.

I sob, my body tensing as another wave of pleasure builds, impossibly fast, impossibly sharp.

"What's wrong, love?" he murmurs, his lips brushing over the shell of my ear. "You were so eager for it just a moment ago."

His fingers press against my clit, rubbing tight, devastating circles, making my body twitch beneath him.

"I—fuck, I can't—"

Azriel just grins, leaning down to kiss my temple, so mockingly sweet.

"You can," he purrs, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "You were just begging for it, I know you can."

I whimper, my head tossing to the side, my brain too fogged to even process anything beyond the ruthless way he's using me.

"Look at you," he muses, his tone full of wicked amusement. "Fucked so dumb you can't even think straight."

I moan at his words, my legs trembling around his waist.

He laughs, low and mean, his fingers still ruthlessly working my clit, even as my entire body shakes from the overstimulation.

"What was that, love?" His teeth graze my jaw, sending another shudder down my spine. "You like being used like this?"

I sob, my head tossing back, unable to form words, unable to do anything with my hands and ankles bound. I loved it, he knew I loved it.

"Fuck," he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his grip on my wrists bruising. "You're so fucking perfect like this—just my little plaything to fuck as I please."

I wail, my body burning, pleasure suffocating me as another climax threatens to rip through me. The pleasure was wringing me out dry.

His fingers press against my clit, merciless, relentless.

"You gonna give me another one, sweetheart?" His voice is taunting, his lips brushing over my ear. "Gonna come on my cock again, even though it's too much?" He mocks.

I nod frantically, tears slipping down my temples, my body convulsing from the unbearable pleasure.

He smirks, so fucking smug.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "My perfect little slut."

I gripe, clenching around him tightly.

Azriel moans, his cock twitching inside me, his thrusts growing sloppier, more frantic.

"One more," he growls, his hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing just right. "Give me one more, love. Be good for me."

I don't even have the breath to scream. And then he snaps his hips forward, his fingers moving faster, and I fucking lose it, another orgasm ripping through me, dragging me under, drowning me in white-hot bliss.

I just shatter, my body breaking apart, my vision going dark at the edges as pleasure obliterates me.

And Azriel—he fucking laughs, still thrusting, still pushing me, ruining me.

"That's my girl," he purrs. "Always so good for me."

Azriel pulls out slowly, almost tenderly, and I slump against the mattress, my body wrecked, trembling with the aftershocks of everything he's done to me. My wrists ache from pulling against the shadows, my legs barely responding to me as I try to catch my breath.

I think—finally. He's done.

But then his hands are on me again, flipping me onto my stomach in one fluid, effortless motion, his strength overpowering.

"Didn't think I was done, did you sweet girl?" he murmurs, his voice like a dark promise as he hauls me up onto my knees.

I barely have a second to process before his hand presses against my back, forcing my chest down, stuffing my face into the pillows.

I gasp, my arms pinned uselessly beneath me, my body still twitching from overstimulation as I feel him behind me—feel the hard press of his cock sliding between my soaked folds, teasing, not yet giving me what I know he's about to.

"Azriel," I mumble, my voice muffled against the pillows, wrecked and pleading.

He tuts at me, his grip tight as he spreads my knees wider, forcing me open for him.

"You think you can take another round?" His voice is full of mockery, his hand running slowly over my hip before gripping me there, holding me in place. "You've been so good for me, taking everything I've given you—you wouldn't let me down now would you?"

"No sir," I moan softly, my body already shuddering with anticipation as he lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance.

I barely have time to pant out a desperate, "Sir," before he thrusts inside me, deep, the new angle making me see fucking stars.

I scream, my fingers clenching uselessly into the sheets as he fills me completely, pressing so deep it makes my entire body tremble.

"Fuck, that's better," he groans, his hands sliding up to grip my waist as he pulls out almost entirely before slamming back in, his pace instantly ruthless.

My mouth drops open in a silent moan, my mind blanking as he uses my body, fucking me like he owns me, like he's never going to stop.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice dark, smug. "To be bent over like this, my cock so deep inside you, you can't even think?"

I sob against the pillows, my body already climbing toward another release, my overstimulated nerves sparking with unbearable pleasure.

Azriel just laughs, his hands gripping my hips as he forces my legs to stay open, refusing to let me close them, refusing to let me hide from how utterly ruined I am.

"You're so fucking perfect like this," he breathes, leaning down so his chest presses against my back, his teeth grazing my ear. "Taking me so well, love. My perfect slut."

I keen, my walls clamping down around him, my entire body melting under his words, his touch, his fucking torment.

"That's it," he purrs, his fingers sliding down between my legs, finding my clit, rubbing it in cruel little circles. "Come for me again, sweetheart. I want to feel you break on my cock."

He keeps his pace brutal even as I flutter around him, his grip on my hips unrelenting as he fucks me into the mattress, each thrust shoving me deeper into the pillows, like he's trying to mold me to the shape of his cock.

And all I can do is take it. Take the way he ruins me, the way he stretches me open again and again, making me feel so fucking full I can't even think.

"You hear yourself, sweetheart?" he taunts, his voice dark, drenched in amusement as he listens to the wrecked little sobs spilling from my lips. "Crying for me while you drip all over my cock like a good whore."

I sob again, pleasure and overstimulation making my body shake, making my mind fog over with nothing but him.

"F-fuck, Az," I whimper, my fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets.

His hand cracks against my ass, making me jolt forward on a choked-out cry.

"Sir," he corrects again, his tone firm, his free hand sliding up my back, tracing the arch his thrusts are forcing me into.

My walls clench around him so tight it drags a deep, filthy groan from his chest.

"You like that?" he purrs, smug as sin, rolling his hips in slow, torturous circles, making sure I feel every inch of him. "Like knowing I could fill this pretty little cunt up—watch you swell with my seed?"

I whimper, my toes curling at the thought, at the absolute filth pouring from his lips.

And then his hand is sliding down, pressing to my lower stomach—right where he's buried deep inside of me.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest, his fingers flexing as he feels where he's stretching me open, where he'd fill me up if he let himself go.

"Fuck," he breathes, his grip tightening on my hip as he thrusts again, shoving deeper just to feel the bulge of himself inside me. "So fucking deep, love. You feel that?"

I nod weakly, my eyes rolling back, my body trembling as another broken sob leaves my lips.

He laughs, wicked and cruel.

"Already so fucked out, aren't you?" he taunts, dragging his palm over my stomach, pressing harder just to make me feel how deep he is. "Poor little thing—just a dumb, desperate mess on my cock."

I keen, my legs shaking, my body completely wrecked and at his mercy.

He twitches, my body arching as he presses into a spot that makes my vision go white, my mouth falling open in a pitiful pant. "Sir, feels, so good," I whimpered.

"Yeah? Greedy girl, going to come again?" He taunted, lips brushing against my shoulder, his sweat-slicked chest kissing my bowed back.

"Please—can I?" His pace didn't slow, even if I knew he was getting closer, he grew more and more sloppy but he did not slow.

"Wait f'me, I'm almost there," He whispered into my skin.

I clenched around him, unable to help myself, wanting to help him get there. My arms shook, near to giving out as I panted into the bed sheets, gripping the pristine white cloth in my fist to stop myself from moving up on the bed.

He twitched inside of me again, growing eager. "Inside," I breathe softly. "Fill me," I beg.

"Yeah? Want me to claim this cunt?" He whispered, lips grazing over the shell of my ear.

"Please, sir," I beg, bottom lip wobbling.

"Okay love, come—come f'me," He chokes slightly, consumed by his need for release. I doubted I could hold onto that edge for much longer, and the sound that left me during that final orgasm was louder than the rest, primal in a way. He twitched once more, and as I clenched tightly around him from the cresting of my orgasm, he came too, painting my walls white with his thick release.

He thrust slowly, gently, easing me down from the white-hot high that still had my body trembling. My whimper was soft, and breathless, as he finally pulled from me, his release spilling from me, warm and slick against my thighs. If not for his steady hands cradling me, guiding me down onto the mattress, I might've collapsed completely.

"Not too much?" His voice was hushed, rough around the edges, like he was just as wrecked as I was, despite that Illyrian stamina keeping him upright. A calloused hand brushed through my likely tangled hair, tucking it behind my ear so he could see me clearly.

I tried to form words, but all I could manage was a breathless, "No." A slow inhale, then, "Felt s'good." My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and even that much effort felt like too much.

He hummed softly, pressing a lingering kiss to my temple. "You did so good," he murmured against my skin before slipping his arms beneath me. I barely had time to react before I was in his embrace again, lifted with ease. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I nodded weakly, my limbs boneless, and let him carry me into the bathroom. The cool marble of the counter met the flushed heat of my skin, soothing, grounding. I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, admiring him in this quiet aftermath. The way his jaw clenched in focus as he wrung out a damp cloth. The tenderness in his touch as he wiped me down, extra careful between my thighs. The contrast of his rough, battle-worn hands moving with such exquisite care.

He combed through my hair next, untangling the knots his fingers had left earlier, his motions steady, unhurried. Every stroke, every pass of his hands over my body, was reverent. Devotional.

He kissed me softly then, tasting of cedar and salt, of something uniquely him. His hands skimmed my sides, his touch a whisper of heat against my skin.

"Six times." His voice was smug, but quiet, like he was half-talking to himself.

I blinked up at him, dazed. "Hm?"

"You came six times." His lips quirked into a knowing smirk, his fingers tracing idle patterns along my thigh.

Heat flooded my already flushed cheeks, my stomach twisting with something like mortification and pride all at once. If he knew so easily, then surely he knew immediately last night when it wasn't real.

"You were counting?"

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Had to make up for last night."

I huffed a small, breathy laugh. "You did."

His smirk softened as he kissed me again. Slow. Deep. A promise.

"How do you know?" I murmured against his lips, pulling back just enough for our noses to brush. "When I come?"

His gaze darkened, and something in his expression made my stomach flip. "You make this pretty face," he said, voice dropping, thumb tracing my bottom lip. "You couldn't fake it if you tried."

I swallowed hard, heat pooling low once more.

"And you always moan my name," he continued, pressing a slow kiss to my throat. "Every single time." His lips dragged over my pulse, felt the way it jumped. "Without fail, it's always my name on your lips."

I could feel my blush creeping lower, my skin burning everywhere he touched.

"You didn't last night," he murmured, voice a lazy drawl like he was enjoying my embarrassment. "Wasn't hard to figure out."

I groaned, dropping my forehead against his shoulder, but I couldn't help but laugh at myself. He chuckled too, the sound a warm rumble against my skin.

I pressed a kiss to his temple, letting my hands roam down his back, enjoying the feel of his muscles beneath my touch.

"So," I mused, still breathless, still utterly spent. "Breakfast?"