#carynthian

Rita's was loud as Rhysand continued blowing his father's money. Shots here, shots there, another round here. He had even snuck Azriel and Cassian in so the males could experience Velaris for the first time.

You were keeping watch, ensuring your closest friend wasn't going to get caught by his father as he boasted his accomplishments to any female, and as he got more intoxicated male, who would listen. You rolled your eyes as the three illyrians took another shot before heading out to dance.

They deserved the happiness they had, the sense of pride and celebration rolling off of them in waves. They had accomplished a goal so few had, and you knew for Rhysand that this meant more than he would ever be able to fully tell his two brothers by choice.

Rhysand had always told you during lessons that he felt like he was stuck. Not Illyrian enough for most Illyrians. Not high fae enough for the prissy upper class. Just stuck. Carynthian was a status so rarely earned during the dreaded Blood Rite and such a high honor, for him as a half Illyrian male to have earned it, fairly and Azriel and Cassian? It was something no one could rip from him, a title no one could ever take away.

It was his crowning moment. His biggest accomplishment. You knew he'd be riding this high for hours to come just based on the way he kept coming over to you, hand resting on your hips as he grabbed his drink. "I wish you would dance with me," he shouted over the music.

"Can't watch for our fathers if I do!" But you wished you could. This was a big moment for him. For all three of them. It had been enough for you to sneak out the high window of your father's home to play look out, enough for you to have one drink with him and break rules of what was considered proper from High Born High Fae female.

He seemed upset by your response, "Are you not having fun? Y/n.." He yelled for Azriel and Cassian, grabbing the three of you and winnowing somewhere much chiller than you were used to.

“Where did you take me,” You pulled back enough to glare, but not enough to lose his body heat in the icy wind.

“Mother's cabin,” his words were slurred, tone nonchalant as Azriel tripped and hiccuped, opening the doorway. “We can party here. No worries about our dear old fathers.”

Unceremoniously, you found yourself tossed on the couch while the three of them continued drinking and yelling, dance moves that made you wonder if you needed to cut them off coming out. You now had your own wine, nursing it as you laughed with them.

They went down one by one, and true to legend, the biggest fell the hardest. Cassian had to be carried upstairs by his barely there brothers, laid in his bed as he continued slurring words of celebration in his sleep. Azriel went down an hour later, shadows having the decency to move him to his bed so he could rest comfortably.

It left you and Rhysand, the heir holding a hand you to and forcing you to come sit under the stars with him. “I did it,” he whispered.

“You did,” you responded. “Without using your magic. Without your wings. Without your father.”

“Fuck that guy,” a ghost of a smile came to his lips. “I can do anything.”

You immediately confirmed, “You can. Regardless of what anyone tells you. You are capable of all things you set your mind to. We all are. High fae, low fae, Illyrian, rich or poor. We are more than our status."

He laid back on the porch, eyes shut with full smile, “Careful, Darling, those words might go to my head." He took a deep breath, "None of these-” he paused as if looking for the right word. “These meat for brains assholes can take it from me. Or Azriel. Or Cassian.”

You pulled your knees to your chest and nodded. “They won't even be able to strip you of it when you become High Lord. High Lord and Carynthian. Two of the most powerful titles in the Night Court.”

“I can think of more powerful titles,” his hand ran ran up and down your spine. “And I'm feeling bold enough tonight to try to earn it too.”

You had gone still until him pulled you down to him by your hair, looking up at his slightly hazy eyes. “And what title is that?”

“Yours,” he said plainly. “I want to be yours.”

200 years later, he still was yours, sighing dramatically as he looked over papers. You knocked softly, carrying the son you two had welcomed just a few months ago, “Babe, you have less than an hour to get ready to go out with Azriel and Cassian.”

He glanced up at you, “What?”

“Don't tell me you forgot,” you bounced your child on your hip, reaching to take the report from him. “It's the anniversary of-”

“Oh! I have to go! Dad brain!” He ran out of the door smiling, leaving you and the baby stunned at the rate the new father left at.

He ran back in moments later, kissing you hard before finally picking up his son. “Daddy is going out tonight, okay buddy?” He carried him down the stairs, you following, watching as small hands touched Rhysand's face. “Let me tell you a story really quick, though. One about daddy, and Uncle Az, and Uncle Cass and this biiiiiiiiiig mountain where I earned my 3rd favorite title.”

Father. Mate. Carynthian. High Lord.

You knew the titles well. Knew the order of importance he gave them.

“Once upon a time, daddy was taken from his bed in the middle of the night..”

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Azriel signaled the barkeep to bring them another round while he thought about what to say.

“It wouldn’t have to mean anything. I’m aware that your affections are otherwise engaged,” she’d said, her fingers going white from the pressure on the glass, all while Azriel felt his his cock throbbing and his wings tightening as he considered the possibility. Gwyn moaning in his arms, the feeling of being inside her hot slick sex.

“My affections?” he’d asked with a little smirk. “You make me sound like the hero of one of your romance novels.”

She’d flushed.

“This was a bad idea.”

He’d reached across the table, aware of the texture of his scars against the smooth back of her hand.

“It’s only that your first time should be with someone you care for.”

For a moment, she had looked reluctant, but then Gwyn rolled her eyes, that irreverent smile forming on her lips. “To think that the spymaster of the Night Court, feared throughout Prythian, should have such conventional ideas about the physical act of love.”

“Take some time to think it over. How about this: if you’re still interested in this after the Valentine’s Day party next week, I will gladly participate.”

The party is more of a diplomatic affair than anything, celebrating one of the few holidays from the human realms in a show of solidarity toward Vassa and Jurian, set to be the guests of honor. And Azriel can understand why humans would celebrate a man who married them, risking his life in the process, when such a thing was illegal under faerie rule. It doesn’t mean he’s looking forward it, to all the posturing and preening and gossip.

It’s only now, waiting for the High Lords to arrive, wondering if he should have worn his armor instead of the black suit Nesta insisted he purchase for special occasions, that he realizes he’s compounded the stress of the event. Because he can’t stop thinking about what Gwyn’s decision will be. She has been unchanged toward him in training, and there have been no trips to Velaris bars in which to inquire after her feelings, a frustration that had him tending to himself each day, trying in vain to stop thinking of Gwyn in the throes.

She enters the hall of the river estate after all the High Lords and their consorts have arrived, after Vassa and Jurian have entered to fanfare and no small amount of grumbling from the High Fae who believed that they should have had a more splendid reception compared to the humans.

When Gwyn walks in, everyone of political significance has arrived and they’re busy posturing and telling jokes that contain hidden barbs. Azriel has somehow managed to get into a conversation with Helion and Vassa, who is clearly enjoying the High Lord’s flirtation and its effect on Jurian. Neither of them notices his blatant stare.

Gwyn has worn a scarlet gown that clings close to her lithe body, revealing it without exposing much beyond her pale, freckled shoulders, the lengths of her slender arms. And yet Azriel can imagine her calling him shadowsinger in a laughing whisper, feeling the charm of her bracelet cool against his skin as she traces his tattoos with her fingertips. Without excusing himself, he moves toward her, his eyes fixed, studying the hair that has been curled and the lips that have been painted to match her dress and the eyes that, when they meet his, seem to be laughing already.

“See something you like, shadowsinger?” The question is bright and irreverent. Nobody speaks to him like this, and Azriel is startled to find that he’s blushing, even though Gwyn has used this exact tone with him dozens of times before. He’s noted her scent, honeysuckle and orange blossom, more times than he can count, but it never seemed this heady.

Then again, she wasn’t looking at him like this, wearing a dress like that. A dress he can too vividly imagine removing.

He swallows, trying to regain some semblance of control before the whole room is aware of the direction of his thoughts.

“I believe you’re the one with a decision to make.”

“I made it last week. I thought you were the one who was uncertain,” she says, reaching out her hand. He takes it, her elegant fingers resting in his palm. He strokes his thumb over each knuckle, not sure why that ordinary touch makes him want to close his eyes and shut out every sensation, even the whispers of his shadows.

“Let’s go to my room, then.”

She shakes her head. “This is the first time I’ve been invited to a party at the High Lord’s house. I plan to enjoy it.”

“Surely you’re joking.”

“I love Valentine’s Day.” Her smile is bright.

“You celebrate the human holidays, too?” He knows that Gwyn practices all the old rituals for the solstices and equinoxes, for every holiday the High Fae typically celebrate with fucking. At least according to her own recounting, Gwyn celebrates those holidays with liturgy and song and occasionally the best chocolate the House of Wind can provide.

“This is the only modern human holiday. Surely you know at least that much, Az.”

Her smile is so bright that he stifles the urge to tell her that he’s studied those particular histories as well.

“I’m only wondering,” he says, belatedly realizing that the other guests have begun moving towards the formal dining room, which he himself has rarely occupied, “why you, a priestess who believes the Mother provides each of us with a mate, celebrate a human man who performed weddings.”

While she thinks, he offers her his arm, tries his best to ignore the little thrill when she settles her hand in the crook of his elbow. He feels like a lovesick youngling.

“It’s about choosing to be in love. A mating bond is sacred, of course, but there are unhappy unions as a result.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” he says. “A mating bond has a way of drawing the right people together.” Though even if he still feels pangs of jealousy when he thinks of Rhys and Feyre, or Cassian and Nesta, the alternative doesn’t sound so awful, not when Gwyn describes it.

Even so, her expression becomes thoughtful, and then Gwyn shakes her head as if to clear it.

“How do you typically celebrate, when you’re not at the High Lord’s home?” He doesn’t mention the fact that as far as she knows, she doesn’t have a male or female to celebrate romantic love with. Finds himself a little unnerved about the possibility.

But Gwyn only says, “Nesta and Emerie and I exchange chocolate and romance novels.”

“That doesn’t sound awful,” he says, thinking about the way the chocolate might dissolve on her tongue.

They’ve reached the table, and he pulls her chair for her with a courtier’s flourish. He’s aware of eyes on her, the High Lords and their trusted advisors admiring Gwyn, and it makes him want to growl, to carry her off to a place where the only gaze on her would be his own.

Somehow he makes it through dinner, talking with Amren and Varian and Cressida, trying not to laugh as Amren is thoroughly perplexed by Gwyn’s cheerful teasing, her lack of fear.

As dessert is served, a chocolate mousse decorated with roses spelled into a heart shape, Gwyn gives a little squeal that makes Azriel think, again, of his empty bedroom, how they might occupy it. He reaches out, blindly, for her knee, strokes his fingers across the fabric, swears he can hear his shadows snickering.

But Gwyn rests her fingers over his, just for a moment, and then he feels her spread her legs, sees her smirk out of the corner of his eye.

When she first walked into training and startled at the sight of him, Azriel never would have thought that this shy acolyte would be capable of such provocation. And he has never been particularly adept at losing.

Keeping his gaze on the dessert, his fork poised in one hand, he inches the other up from Gwyn’s knee to her thigh, tracking her expression in his peripheral vision for any sign of discomfort. Instead, her freckled cheeks grow rosy, and she worries her bottom lip with her teeth as he moves his hand toward the apex of her thighs. The fabric of her dress is thin enough that he can feel the heat of her skin.

When his fingers are mere inches from her sex, Gwyn opens her legs wider, arches her back just slightly, lets out a single heavy breath.

Any of these things alone might be unnoticeable to any eye but his own, but together, they’re enough to draw a raised eyebrow from Varian, a smirk from Amren. For all that he wants her, as soon as possible, he knows he cannot subject her to the censure of the people who surround her.

“This is your favorite dessert, isn’t it?” he asks, more brightly than he’s spoken in at least two centuries, withdrawing his hand.

“Of course,” she says, sounding dazed, but gamely plunging her spoon into the mousse.

When she raises the spoon to her lips, she caresses it just slightly with her tongue, and Azriel gulps without intending to.

She merely winks.

After the dessert plates are cleared away, as they all rise for the ballroom, Amren catches at his elbow.

“You’d best be careful, boy,” she mutters darkly, “Nesta will dismember you if you leave her friend heartbroken after one of your dalliances.”

“It’s not that,” Azriel murmurs back, hoping Gwyn doesn’t hear, that she won’t misinterpret. Because this is just an agreement between friends. One night of sex. And still he hates that he can imagine how she would look if she were hurt by him.

Somehow Amren lets him off with just a knowing smile, gliding off with Varian towards the dance floor.

He smells honeysuckle and orange blossom and asks, “Do you like to dance?”

“Yes,” Gwyn says, her fingers light on his elbow, as soft as a shadow. “But I think I could be convinced to skip that portion of the evening, if you were inclined towards another activity.”

“A walk in the garden?” he asks, keeping his voice dry. He can still see, in his mind, that look of hurt on Gwyn’s face.

“And spoil my slippers?” Her tone is a perfect match to his. “You were in such a hurry to carry me off to your bedroom earlier.”

“You look right in this ballroom,” he says, extending his hand with a slight bow, the most a warrior of his stature can give at such a gathering. “Let’s stay for one dance.”

The smile on her lips makes it clear that he made the right choice, and as he leads her through the waltz, she draws closer toward him, their legs intertwining as they move through the steps, his hand spanning her waist, her bare shoulder. Her skin is like the petal of a rose. His breath catches in his throat as the song swells, as her eyes go dreamy and her mouth opens slightly, the way he imagines she might look after she’s reached the peak of her pleasure.

Through her sweet scent, he can detect her arousal, and it only makes him pull her closer, so that it’s hard to properly complete the steps, particularly when her fingers accidentally graze his wings, a touch so light she doesn’t notice it but which he can feel throughout his body.

He regrets, now, every eye that keeps him from teasing the fabric from her body and mapping the constellations of her freckles.

When the song finally finishes, he dips to murmur in her ear, “I’m going to escort you to my bedroom now. Unless you have any objections.”

“Only that this waltz lasted an eternity,” she breathes.

He twines an arm around her waist and sends his shadows to scout a path for them, so they might go unobserved. Azriel does not mind if anybody knows that he will bed the most gorgeous woman in the room, that she has chosen him as the male who makes her feel safe, but he knows how he himself is viewed in other courts, how fragile she might feel about this act. Wants to give her the option to pretend it never happened.

The shadows lead them to a table where more desserts and drinks are prettily arranged, and Gwyn admires them with a grin, filling a plate with pink treats. Azriel takes it in hand, his Siphon flashing with his own impatience as he tries to walk leisurely behind his shadows, making commentary on the house so that anyone would think he’s giving a proper tour.

Only Gwyn’s smirk, the press of her fingers on his wrists, suggests otherwise. Still, when she plucks a petit four from the plate, it’s so easy to laugh.

“I saw you eat that mousse.”

“Nesta suggested I might need… fortification. She says there are stories about you, but she wouldn’t repeat them.”

He can only imagine what Cassian has told his mate. And it’s not as if Gwyn doesn’t know him. Still, he’s never discussed this part of his life at length with her.

“You should know that I’ve been with females and males before. That I have a long history. I’m not proud of all of it.” He watches her out of the corner of his eye for any sign of distress or second thoughts.

“I didn’t expect you to be a blushing virgin, shadowsinger.”

He snorts.

“Only to leave you in need of pastries.”

“You were the one who taught me to be prepared.”

“Don’t tell me there’s a dagger strapped under your dress.”

She only raises an eyebrow, brings her palm to the middle of her thigh. He starts walking faster, taking her hand in his own. The sounds of the party fade behind them, leaving only the click of Gwyn’s heels on the marble floor, the sound of their breathing.

Finally, they reach his bedroom door.

“Last chance, Valkyrie.”

She beams up at him, looks straight into her eyes with that gaze like summer, and says, “I decided days ago, Shadowsinger. Would you like to begin in the hallway?”

He pulls her toward him and gives her the kiss he’s wanted to press into her mouth for hours, now, the softness of their lips quickly giving way to his tongue licking the seam of her mouth, their hot breaths and Gwyn’s fingers reaching for him, stroking the back of his neck.

Within seconds, he’s so hard. Ready for her.

He lets her go just long enough to open the door, and then pulls her inside his bedroom.

She looks around for a moment, no doubt taking in the lack of decoration, the few books lined up in a neat row on the shelf above his desk.

“Is there a dagger under your pillow?” she asks, moving toward the bed. Her dress sighs over her hips.

He has to bite back a groan. It’s been too long since he was intimate with another person, and Gwyn flipping his pillows, shouting in triumph as she discovers his dagger, is erotic for reasons he’s unwilling to analyze.

Instead, he reaches for her ankle, feels his smile going feral as he runs his hand up her smooth muscled leg, until his fingers close around the dagger on her thigh.

When she looks at him, her smile has vanished and her lips are only just parted, still swollen from his kiss. He unstraps the dagger and places it in her palm.

“Remember that you’re armed, Valkyrie,” he says, then rises to kiss her again. She is eager against him, her fingers immediately rising to the buttons of his black shirt, pushing at the lapels of his jacket as the dagger falls to the rug. He presses his hands over hers.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but let me touch you first.”

“I want to see you,” she says, her hands still moving under his. “All the time in training, I think--” She stops and her cheeks go red.

“How long have you been thinking about what I look like under my leathers?”

“Since a little before the Blood Rite.” Her flush has spread from her face to her neck and her chest, and Azriel gives in to temptation and follows it with his lips, kissing the column of her neck, her collarbones and the soft skin that gives way to her breasts. By the time his lips skim the neckline of her gown, Gwyn is breathless.

“What am I doing, when you imagine me?”

“Mostly posing with that arrogant grin on your face,” she says, and he lets out a growling laugh as he moves aside the fabric of her dress, scoops her breasts free. When he runs his calloused thumbs over her nipples, she shivers. He wants to memorize that exact sound, the weight of her breasts in his hand, Gwyn naked from the waist up, her auburn hair curling on her shoulders and her teal eyes glazed.

“Am I ever doing something like this?” he asks, bending to press his mouth over her breast, licking and sucking until she whispers yes.

“It’s not as good in my mind, though,” she says, as he moves from one breast to the other.

“Do you touch yourself when you think of me?”

She’s so close to him that he can feel her nod, and he rewards her for that confession by unfastening the rest of her dress and letting it fall to the floor in a scarlet cloud.

When he rests his hand on her thigh and unfastens the sheath for her dagger, he says, “Tell me how you touch yourself, Gwyn.”

“I lie in the dark and I think of you. I used to be scared, but--” She lets out a panting breath as his hand moves higher, towards her underthings. “But it felt so good when I thought about you.”

“Is that why you asked for this?”

She shakes her head, puts her hand over his, her eyes suddenly clear. “It was because we became friends. Because you weren’t a fantasy any more, or a savior. Because I found out what your laugh sounded like.”

He can imagine, now that she says it, what it would be like to laugh against her skin with nothing but delight. Instead, when she nods, he presses a kiss to her navel, and moves his hands up, up, up, to hook on the seams of her underthings, to reveal those copper curls at the apex of her thighs. He kisses her hipbones, the tops of her thighs, his fingers drawing closer to her sex as her breaths grow louder.

When he finally reaches it, she’s hot and slick, arching her back on instinct so that his fingertips graze her clit.

The little gasp she lets out makes his suit feel too tight, but Azriel would let this world collapse around them rather than stop touching her. He strokes her clit until she’s mewling, clutching at his hair, her cheeks rosy, and then he dips two fingers inside her, his thumb still working that throbbing spot at the apex of her sex.

She arches against him, her muscles straining under her skin, and then she unravels with a cry, clutching at his shoulders as she comes against his hand.

“Take off your clothes,” she says, wobbling. He stands, first, and carries her to the bed.

“How was it?” he asks, kissing her mouth.

“Better than I thought it ever would be,” she says, “but I still feel as if--”

He reaches for the buttons of his shirt, giving her a moment to say she wants to stop, that this is enough, but she just looks at him, her eyes fixed on the increasing stretch of his skin, revealed by his fingers.

“Do you feel like you want me inside you?” he asks, shrugging out of his shirt and jacket. Her eyes follow the whorls of his Illyrian tattoos, and it takes her a long second to nod.

“You need to say it, Gwyn.” Because he needs to know it’s all right. And because he needs, for whatever reason, to hear those words from her kiss-swollen lips.

“I want you inside me, Azriel.”

He shucks off his trousers. His cock springs free and she reaches out for it. He would’ve expected Gwyn to be afraid, or at least a bit hesitant, but there’s nothing but curiosity in her eyes. Perhaps a little admiration, even, as she strokes down his shaft with her fingertips.

She’s tentative at first but soon she begins to explore, cupping his balls in her hands, swirling her thumb against the bead of moisture gathering at the tip. All the while, she sneaks quick glances at his face.

“You’re looking at me like a spy would,” he says, though the teasing is ruined by the way his breath catches in the words, the groan that threatens to turn them into nonsense.

“Only because you taught me how.”

Gwyn kisses his shaft and then replaces her fingers with her tongue, licking every inch of his cock until Azriel’s blood pounds in his ears. Too late, he remembers that he needs to go slow with her. To try and keep from hurting her.

He reaches for her, sets her on the bed, tries to still his mind, even when her legs open for him, when her sex, pink and gleaming, is all he can see.

“You’re sure you want this?” he manages to ask.

“Please,” she says, and then, “If you want this, I want this.”

He can’t think too long about the hesitation in that last statement because, as he nods, she brushes her fingers against his chest, and he can’t help but move towards her, positioning himself at her entrance, sliding inside her bit by bit.

Her tight heat surrounding him is exquisite, but Azriel reigns himself in, watches Gwyn’s face for any sign of discomfort. She only opens her legs wider, hooks them around his hips as he pumps in and out of her, as slowly as he can.

Her toe slides against his wing. He groans at the sensation, the feeling of Gwyn’s sex around his cock and her touch on his wing nearly enough to make him come too early.

She jerks her foot away.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know about Illyrian wings.”

“I liked it.” He’s surprised to find himself saying the words, and even more when he says, “You can touch my wings, if you want.”

He opens them then, so that they’re surrounded by his wings, and while he moves in and out of her, strokes her heated skin, Gwyn traces her fingers over the bones and tendons, the veins and scars. Her touch is gentle but Azriel feels it searing through him, coiling at the base of his spine, begging for release.

He reaches for her clit again, and within seconds she is moaning as he strokes her, thrusts inside her, harder now, building a rhythm that she follows eagerly, her hips rocking against his, her sex clenching around him.

When she comes with a little cry, arching against him, Azriel follows, plunging inside her with a final thrust and giving way to his own release, breathing her name against her heated skin as strands of shadow and gold move between them, tracing their wrists, binding them together.

And it occurs to him, then, why she was thoughtful when she spoke of mates. Why she asked if he was certain. Why, as the threads of light and shadow bind them, their breaths still heavy, she still looks at him with more than a little apprehension.

He kisses her, first, strokes her copper hair off her brow, and then he asks, “How long have you known that we’re mates, Gwyn?”

“I suspected after the Blood Rite. When I saw you, after, at training, it was more than relief to have survived. I had to sneak off to my room as soon as training was over, and lock the door.”

“I wish you had told me.”

He can tell from her downcast eyes that he’s said the wrong thing.

“You’re the High Lord’s spymaster. I’m nobody special. I thought--” He stops her with a kiss.

“You are a Valkyrie and a Carynthian, and more than that you are Gwyneth Berdara.” He kisses her again. No one has ever thought that he was so worthy, and he tries to give that feeling right back to her.

But then she says, “There are legends and songs about your love for Mor.”

He wants to tell her that what he’s experienced with her in these last hours is as unlike his feelings for Mor that it’s light comparing lighting to a lightning bug, but he suspects that Gwyn will think he is lying to her. That he barely knows the depth and specifications of his own feelings for Gwyn, only that he’s spent the past week wanting to bed her and the past months wanting to learn everything that makes her smile. Even before he knew what bound them.

Instead he tells her the truth. “I am glad it’s you, Valkyrie.”

“You’re sure? I knew that sex might make you realize, but I didn’t suspect that an actual bond would form between us.” She gestures towards their wrists, where the tendrils of their bond still linger. “I thought you’d have a chance to make your choice.”

He thinks about the evenings he’s spent with her, the way she makes him laugh when she speaks about obscure theories, the way he’s so often wanted to pull her close against him but resisted, not knowing if such a gesture would be welcome. How close he’s felt to her in his mind.

His cock stirs inside of her, already stiffening.

“We still have time to choose,” he says, taking her hand in his. “But right now, if I’m being very honest, I only wish I’d known sooner.”

The smile she gives him is so bright, so lovely, that Azriel has no choice but to kiss her, to run his hands down her body until she shivers against him, reaches for him.

“I want to know the meaning behind all of your tattoos,” she says, running her fingers over the whorling script, her tone and the gesture filled with the curiosity she typically reserves for new and intriguing books.

“They’re meant to both celebrate and invite glory in battle,” he tells her, trying to keep from thrusting inside her, to keep himself in check. “Though they’re a stylized form of old Illyrian runes, which nobody can exactly read, so it’s possible that they mean something else entirely.”

“I’m sure there’s a volume in the library which will--”

He doesn’t interrupt her, exactly, sucking at her neck in just the right spot, but Gwyn goes silent for a moment, and she’s panting by the time he pulls away.

Then she reaches out to stroke his wings, the place where they join his body, and Azriel doesn’t hold back the groan that escapes him as he thrusts inside her again, as she arches against him, moaning his name against his skin.

You’re my mate, he whispers in her ear, and she says only yes and yes and yes.

Notes: I feel like after this week, we all deserve some Gwynriel smut, right? I hope you all have a great Valentine's Day and HOSAB release! 🧡

My Instagram followers voted for this fic out of a few pairing and scenario options. To get the chance to request holiday fics like this in the future (because, let's be real, there will be more), you can follow me on Instagram at house.of.hurricane.

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