#dark!az

Your palms slip in the mud, sandals lost from your feet as you try to scramble backwards, something hard digging into the base of your spine. You’re caught at the base of an oak. 

Sweat slides down your temples. Chest heaving. Nausea stirring. Thighs trembling from exertion. 

Sabre teeth flash before you, claws gouging mud from the ground, tongue flicking saliva from its mouth. 

You’re going to die. There’s sweat cling to your body. Mud and grit lodged beneath your nails. A cloying damp digging into your spine. Lungs searing, aching for breath, more, more, more…

The creature rears on its tail, serpentine body coiling tight as fangs flash and your knees pull to your chest, arms covering your face. 

Steel hisses through scales, a bubble bursting as liquid gurgles. Mud splats on your bare shins as a heavy weight hits the wet earth. Copper bleeds through the forest air. 

No teeth chew your flesh. 

Cool, silken darkness slithers down over the bark, wrapping your shoulders, swirling round your waist. Paces squelch in the damp mud, pausing nearby. 

Then, “You’re okay…” 

That voice… 

Your arms fall away, staring at the male knelt before you, the massive serpent’s head laying decapitated by his side. Blood flecks his brown skin—red ink scrawled on parchment paper that’s been posted through your letter box day after day. Possessive words that fall deaf on romantic ears, while intensity glitters in the dark eyes before you. 

“…Az…riel…?” 

He nods, his black, inky hair grown long enough to flop over dark brows, soft and spiky in his eyes. 

“It’s me.” He tells you. “You’re okay.” 

Breath shudders through your chest, at once suctioned into your lungs with such force you nearly wind yourself. 

You tip yourself forward, uncaring for the gritty mud slicking your bare knees as you struggle forward, arms flying over his shoulders as you shudder. The serpent’s thick throat lies severed at his back, and your fingers clutch at the dark linen of his shirt, staring at the bleeding red hole of its throat you could have been swallowed down. 

His wings shift, pulling taut at his back, and the gore is hidden from sight. Warm, stable hands spread across your back, his fingers curling around the side of your ribs, thumbs softly strumming the bones. 

“You’re alright,” he reminds, soft and low. “You’re okay.” 

“You killed-… You saved…” Breath stammers, lungs stuttering. “Azriel…”

“It’s okay,” he whispers, distant enough his breath won’t frighten your ears. “Everything’s okay.” 

But the moment hasn’t ended yet for you. You’re still curled against the tree, the serpent rearing over you. Azriel hasn’t arrived yet. 

“Y-you…” He’s here. 

You can feel him. 

He’s just beneath your fingers, holding you together.

“Azriel…”

Fierce, familiar hands brace the front of your ribcage, ever so gently pushing you to a distance where your eyes can meet. 

Quiet spreads light through the air, time falling away as he engulfs your world. His gaze is grounding, hauling you out from your mind, soul spreading swift through your limbs now it’s been dragged, timid, from your skull.

“You saved me…” You breathe, at last having the sense to push tears from your eyes. “You… You-…” 

His eyes soften, stroking your sides, a small, disarming smile gentling the edges of his mouth. One hand lifts to cup your cheek, securing your gaze. “I never thought it would be you in need of saving,” he murmurs, eyes twinkling. 

It’s beyond you how he can manage such kindness in a moment like this. How he can be so patient, and forgiving despite the terror in your veins. 

A laugh cracks from your lips, hurried, and more than a little frantic. “Guess I owe you,” you force out, hands trembling, forcing yourself to swallow the fear lodged in your throat. 

It doesn’t budge. 

His eyes glitter like black diamonds. Shining coal. Spilled ink. 

Amusement plies his lips into a slow smile, teeth hidden in his mouth. “Promise?” 

You heave down another breath, trying to swallow past the lump blocking your oesophagus. 

You try to laugh. Try to roll your eyes at his teasing. 

It’s no help to your nerves, how much he’s touching you. So delicately. Like you’re something sweet and fragile. 

It’s making you want him to reach his fingers in, and peel back your petals. Flourish with colour and pollen, and tempt him closer. Find out just how sweet your centre is. 

For a moment you forget about bargains. Forget about deals, and the magic that leaks from your mouths.

Somehow. 

You manage a shaking smile, “I promise.” 

Pain stamps itself on your back, a billion needles swiftly pricking your skin, seeping ink inside before withdrawing, leaving your flesh poked and seething. 

Stupid, stupid decision. 

Azriel’s pupils expand, then breath is fluttering from his lungs, offering a breathless smile before resting his brow on your shoulder. Relief clears his scent of its remaining tension. Tension you had presumed was the symptom of the serpent. 

He’s murmuring something. Murmuring something too soft for you to hear. His mouth brushes your skin in the same pattern over and over. Repeating endlessly. 

His shoulders slump, wings turning lax and you’re once again confronted with the violence of his care. The gaping throat, raw and crusting in places. 

Your fingers shake as you clutch onto him. His fingers stroke the sides of your waist, meandering across your back, exploring the curve of your shoulders and tracing up the nape of your neck. His fingers are free and wandering, traveling with a curiosity and greed he’s never once acted on. Those fingers sink into your muddy hair, and he lifts his head to gaze at you, close enough to feel breath against your still mouth. Close enough the tip of his nose brushes your own. Close enough his lashes send a fluttering breath ghosting your cheek when he blinks. 

“Accept it,” he whispers. “Accept me.” 

You blink, not understanding his words, periphery coming into view again. 

“Accept…?” You whisper, scanning his face. “Accept what?” 

“Me.” He breathes. “Our… The bond.” 

You blink, body pausing, “…what?” 

He swallows, shifting your body in his arms—so delicate; you’re so fragile. “There’s one between us. I can feel it. I’ve felt it for years.”

“A…” You don’t know what to say.

“A mating bond,” he whispers, “for us.” 

Your skin cools, remembering parchment shoved through your letter box, riddled with carefully curled letters, sketched in bloody red ink. Delicate and beautifully scrawled—years of practice to perfect the jagged kicks in his fried nerves. 

A bouquet left on your kitchen table, found after a long night out, coming back to a locked door that must have been tampered with while you were away. 

Torn pages slid between the iron of your windows, trapped between the panes, containing short passages from stories you sometimes recognise. Passages you love; passages you’ve never read before; passages that make your hairs stand on end. 

“…You…?” 

You stare at him. Breath trembling. 

It’s him? 

It can’t be. 

But his eyes show a hunger you’ve never seen in him before. 

At least not one you’ve noticed. 

“You don’t have to stay,” he whispers, voice hoarse, and it’s real. It’s him. 

“I won’t force you into anything,” he swears, attention briefly dropping to your mouth, then lifting back to your eyes. He swallows. “Except this. This is it. …It’s all I want.” 

“You…” you stammer, lungs panicking. “You- You sent the letters. The notes.” 

He nods. 

“You left the flowers? The pages?” He nods. 

You stare at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

It’s softer than a whisper. 

Revulsion fills his eyes. He looks away. “I’d never…” His throat rolls. You hear it move. “I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s not your…” He looks back at you, and your heart stutters. “I’ll deal with it. You don’t have to… I’ll keep out of Velaris. I’m leaving you alone. It’s not your problem.” 

Fear filters through your blood. Panic slipped into your drink. 

“Accept it,” he repeats. 

His eyes are imploring. Intense. A gravitational pull all to themselves. 

Words catch in your throat. “I don’t know how.” 

His features pale. Hands stiffening. Fingers falling away from your hair; your skin. 

“Please…” His breathless plea’s not directed at you. 

“Don’t disappear,” you choke out, sinking fingers into his hair, smearing crusted mud against the crest of his cheek, flecks of blood flaking away. 

“You should’ve-” Told me. 

“Why didn’t you-” Tell me. 

“Please-” Don’t leave me. Don’t be so cruel to yourself. 

You kilter into him, and his eyes widen, arms catching you as his back hits the serpent’s dead scales. Blood pumps out into the mud, and your knees and hands mix it well as you struggle over him, struggle to pin him down so he won’t leave, struggle to correctly find his mouth amidst the panic. 

A sound catches in his throat as your wet fingers splay across his shoulders, mouth pushing down atop his own. 

You taste him, swipe across his lips, pry him apart with your teeth and tongue. 

You recall the hunger in his eyes, the desire he had. For you. 

His hands shake, then they’re gripping your waist, slow at first, then rough, slipping beneath your top, spreading muck and blood up your bare back. Overhead the clouds converge, dark and heavy and ripe with rain, the first few droplets spitting onto the serpent’s scales; wetting the dried dirt on his cheek; cooling the burning heat of your skin. 

Azriel’s wings shift, readjusting himself in the mud, sitting upright so you’re over his lap, knees deep in the mud either side his hips, and he’s hungry again. All over again. Fingers creeping and crawling while your own stroke and squeeze, pushing your mouths so close together there’s no room for fresh air. 

You pull away panting, clutching back to one another before you’ve reset, and the rain falls heavier, pittering into already gathering puddles. His mouth is hot and everywhere, and your lungs burn but you’ve never been so desperate and starving with the solution already before you.

Water streaks down your back, soaking your clothes, wind whipping at wet linen as the trees hiss, rain pelting his wings that flare then draw in close, shielding from the slanting rain. 

You’re coming undone. 

————

Her mouth is persuasive in a way even his own twisted imagination couldn’t comprehend. Luring him in, seducing him, convincing him she wants him. 

It can’t be true. 

He’s spent so long convincing himself otherwise, wallowing in freezing misery and endless hunger that having her on top of him, open-mouthed and touching seems impossible. He wouldn’t have made the effort to lure the serpent so far from it’s home if he’d believed he had a chance. Wouldn’t have aggravated it so it would chase the first scent it caught. Wouldn’t have hounded her with notes and love letters detailing the affection he wished he could give her. 

But she’s here, a weight in his lap, a pushing heat against his skin that soothes every place she touches. A single, mellow flame stolen from the sun, coddled by darkness and brought down overnight just so he can drink her in and warm his hands without fear of burns. 

The bond glitters in his chest, pulsing like a river preparing to flood its banks. Brimming with molten gold searing at the dam blocking its path. 

His hands grip her waist, lifting her so they can be equal on their knees, so his arm can push at her spine so she can push into him, front flush to his chest and when their mouths collide again, the dam dissolves. 

Nails rake through his hair, clawing at his shirt as her body noticeably heats, her legs shaking in the cocoon of darkness they’re sharing, the roaring of the wind kept far enough at bay he can hear when she whispers, “the bond… I can feel it.” 

Azriel feels it too. Feels the pent up pressure finally release, met with surging waters that hiss and boil on contact, rising to share temperature. 

Never did he think he’d experience the relief of mutual adoration. 

Never did he think the Mother would deem him worthy of love. 

Maybe she doesn’t. 

But the female on top of him—his mate… In her eyes, he’s worthy.

~~~~~~~~

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

The sun is still rising from the horizon, casting a deep orange gold across the tiles of the kitchen floor when Azriel enters, shadows gliding in his wake, and you’d guess he likely hasn’t slept.

“Morning,” you greet, a faint smile on your mouth, watching him hopefully as he makes his way to the teapot sat in the middle of the small table, pouring himself a cup. It isn’t often he visits since he’s kept busy with his own work, dealing with who knows what in the dark shadows that cling to  him. That and the whole point of you being here is to keep your existence under wraps. It’s unlikely anyone would get suspicious, particularly since you’re convinced he and his brothers are the only ones who even know the location of this safe house, but he still keeps the visits to a strict minimum.  Not like anyone would come looking for you, after the bargain that was struck between your eldest brother and the High Lord of the Night Court. The only reasons Azriel has to visit at all, are either to get a semblance of peace and quiet—he’s never said so, but you’ve gathered that’s the case over the decades—or… 

Azriel takes a seat at the table, wings shifting at his back as he stretches the tension-tied tendons, powerful muscle flexing as he spreads each wing in turn, already pulling a notebook from a shadowy pocket. His tea steams nearby, pencil already scratching over paper and you glance to the calendar on the wall, hopes steadily becoming more and more substantial, but he’s continuing with his work. 

You try to wait—he’s busy, he has work to do, he doesn’t enjoy your company—but when he’s one of the only people you really ever get to see, restraint is difficult. Most of your discretion and discipline slips the leash when he visits, jumping and bounding with exhilaration at seeing someone again, even if it is someone so cold. 

It’s only when his tea boils over, steam fluttering in simmering ribbons from the teacup that he raises his gaze to yours, expression disagreeable. “You’re a grown woman,” he says, pinning you with a cold look, “behave like one.” 

“Sorry, Azriel,” you reply quickly, getting a hold of your magic, leaving his tea alone. Your lips press together, hands in your lap while your fingers wring impatiently beneath the table, waiting expectantly. But he watches you for a few moments more, dragging out the silence, as if daring you to speak out of turn, before going back to his notebook, pencil once again scratching over the paper, and you could bite your tongue from frustration. 

Instead you swallow thickly—you’re entirely justified in interrupting him, in this case…—sitting straighter in your chair, fingers hooking over the edge of the table where he can see them. “Azriel,” you try, wanting to get his attention. He makes a low noise of acknowledgement, but his pencil continues scrawling neatly across the narrow lines of the paper. “Eris is visiting today isn’t he?” You blurt out, unable to contain it any longer. It’s the only other reason he would be here with you, other than for his own reasons that you’ve long given up on trying to understand, and the timing is aligned, too. Your oldest brother usually visits some time during spring, as preparations are less hectic in the Autumn Court, magic just that little bit more tame while the rest of the world passes through the opposing season.

“He can’t make it this year,” Azriel replies, not looking up, “he’ll visit next year.” 

You blink, the words hitting like stones against your skin, bruises already flourishing in their wake. “…what?” 

Azriel doesn’t reply, knowing you heard him the first time and unwilling to repeat himself, but you push forward regardless. “Azriel, what do you mean he can’t visit this year. He always visits. What’s in his way?” 

“How should I know,” Azriel replies, pencil scratches grating against your ears. 

“What reason did he give?” You push, leaning forward in your seat, forearms crossed beneath your breasts to brace yourself. “He would have said something. What was it?” 

“He didn’t say. Probably busy scheming.” 

“He wouldn’t,” you insist, but he looks like he’s hardly listening to you. “Azriel,” you say, a little louder and a little harsher than you should really be speaking to him. 

He doesn’t take his attention from his notebook, continuing with those frustratingly neat scrawls of writing, not even bothering to recognise the pain that’s undoubtedly written across your features. Your jaw works, throat rolling, before your brow is narrowing, pinning his mug with a look, watching as the steam becomes thicker, fluttering more violently, swiftly bubbling from a gentle simmer to an obvious boil, scalding water splashing in places across the table in less than a fraction of a second. Sharp eyes flick to the cup, then slice up to you, his brows narrowed in mild displeasure, before a cold, silky darkness snatches your sight away. 

You inhale sharply as his shadows coil over your eyes, acting as a blindfold so you have no control over the direction of your magic, powers draining away as the darkness smothers your flame with little effort. 

Azriel watches with a passive look on his face as a tear drips from beneath his shadows, spilling down your cheek but evaporating before it hits the table. Good. He tucks the visual away, carefully prying it from his immediate memory and locking it up somewhere dark and depraved. 

“Has it crossed your mind that maybe he doesn’t want to see you?” Azriel asks from across the table. “If he missed you so much, he would find the time.” 

“You’re lying. Tell me why he couldn’t make it.” You’ve never spoken like that to him before. Always tried to keep a tone of respect when interacting with him, since you’re in his lands, in his house. Your life arguably in his hands, in a way. 

“He’s the one who sent you away in the first place,” Azriel replies coldly. “He’s the one who sent you here, right into his enemies’ hands.”

“He’s the one who made the sacrifice,” you argue back, tears simmering as they burn at your cheeks, “all you’re doing is lending a house to someone. There’s hardly any downside on your end of the deal. He’s the one giving things up.” 

“And he’s the reason why you’re so lonely,” Azriel replies, ice creeping into his voice as you advocate for your brother. “And now you’ll be even more on your own, since he couldn’t even be bothered to find a few hours for you. We’re the ones looking after you. Tell me again how much he loves you?” 

“Like you’re any better?” You manage back, voice wobbling, because you are alone here. So, incredibly isolated. Sure there are the animals, the birds and the insects, the constant chirp and chipper from the outside, but it’s nothing like interaction with other people. And there have been times you’ve resented your brother for that. For keeping you safe only by putting you in a cage. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” 

Azriel’s icy voice breaks through your thoughts, and if it weren’t for his shadows blindfolding you, you’d be staring at him. 

“You barely visit,” you manage hoarsely. “And even then, you make no secret that you loathe my presence. You hardly tolerate it.”

“I need to concentrate on my work. It’s basic respect I’m asking for,” he replies, yielding not even an inch of ground in this one-sided battle. “I’d be happier if you didn’t visit at all,” you shoot back, heart aching in your chest. 

Silence stretches, and your ears strain, searching for some kind of sound. 

“Those words would hold more weight if you actually meant them,” Azriel replies at last, and your head tilts to the side, turning to the right where his voice came from. “But as it is,” he continues, voice lowered to a near whisper, flinching when his lips brush the shell of your ear, “you’re easier to read than a picture book, and a liar—just like your brother.” 

Then he’s stepping away, shadows pulling with him, and your eyes wince for a second before they adjust, watching through blurry vision as he sits back down, pouring himself a fresh cup of tea. 

You’d boiled the last one down to the pit of the mug.

————

You’re sat on your mattress, back pressing into the full pillows you’ve stacked together, a small, yellow-tinted light clipped to one of the posts of your bed to give enough illumination while reading, when Azriel knocks on your door.

You keep your attention glued to the pages of your book, purposefully ignoring him the way he had done to you this morning. “Dinner’s ready,” he says, causing you to pause. He’s caught you off guard with that one. Even when you were first transferred to this hidden away safe-house, without knowing how to cook or prepare meals for yourself, having always had cooks or servants deliver food to you, he’d rarely helped you, leaving you to struggle and learn on your own. Mostly from watching him prepare things. 

And occasionally giving yourself food poisoning. 

“I can cook my own food, thank you,” you reply, wishing you had the spine to drop the pleasantries at the end, but you’re too scared of pissing him off. He’s your only real connection to the outside world, the only constant you have in your life at the moment. “Well you haven’t tonight, and you’ll be going to bed soon, so make an exception.” 

“I can decide when to eat, and when to sleep, on my own, too, thank you,” you reply, a little more tersely, wondering how much he’ll allow. You’ve got to be careful in this battle—you don’t know how to read him, don’t know if you’re pushing too far and he’ll suddenly wage war on you.

“You can’t, by the looks of it,” he replies, eyeing the clothes you’re in—definitely not your usual sleepwear. “Are you planning to try and sneak out later tonight?” 

“No,” you respond, primly. You don’t want to tell him you’re out of night-gowns to wear. Most of your clothes have been piled up, supposed to be washed. You haven’t been in the right headspace to do much though, having been too excited, and then recently too sad to. “Well get changed, and then we can eat.” 

That gets your attention, eyes locking over the top of your book, your legs being drawn tighter to your chest, watching him warily. You swallow—you’ve never eaten together before. “Is this about earlier?” You ask, forcing your gaze back to your book, away from his penetrating eyes, feeling as though he can read you like a…well, like a picture book.

Azriel is quiet for a pause before answering. “I could have been less harsh,” he relents, and you meet his gaze again, surprised. “You’re…apologising…?” You ask, a piece of your apprehension swayed. “No,” he says firmly, voice cooling to that icy sharpness again, swift enough to have you doubting the previous gentle tone he’d used. Not exactly gentle, actually, but anything compared to this tone will count as gentle in your mind. 

“Well, I’m tired, Azriel. I hope you sleep well,” you say, as much as a dismissal as you can force yourself to say, too worried about stepping out of line to say anything truly harsh. But he doesn’t take it, remaining in your door. “You’ll eat before bed.” 

“I’ve lost my appetite,” you lie. Half lie. You’re in no mood for eating after this conversation. 

“Just come and eat. You’ll feel better when you’re no longer hungry.” 

“I can make my own decisions, Azriel,” you reply sharply, irritation simmering gently in the pit of your stomach. 

His hazel eyes harden at the tone, at the flame you know is probably flickering in your gaze, shadows darkening unpleasantly as a merciless look crosses his features. “Stop being a brat and eat. I’ll be in the living room.” 

And then the door clicks shut. 

————

You keep the woollen blanket pulled over your shoulders as you quietly and reluctantly make your way to the kitchen, hoping to take whatever you can find back to your bedroom, and eat there. You haven’t decided whether or not it’s a cowardly decision or not. 

The kitchen table is empty, and you glance about, but can’t see whatever food Azriel had mentioned. That’s fine though, you’re more than happy to put something together for yourself, make to do so, when a presence gathers at your back. You stumble forward, spinning around to find the exact male stood silently at your back. “I— You scared me,” you stammer thoughtlessly, before remembering you’re trying to hold your ground against him. Some ground, at least. 

“Food’s in the living room,” he says sternly, watching you with that cold gaze of his, icy enough to have the small, soft hairs rising up the length of your back, prickling at the nape of your neck. You swallow, raising your chin a little higher, keeping yourself calm as you level him with a somewhat composed look. “I’m going to eat in my room,” you say, trying not to let your apprehension show, steeling your spine to hold firm. But—

“You’re eating with me.” 

You blink. Blink again. “I’m— I’m eating in my—”

“With me.” He repeats, pinning you to the cold tile floor with a look worthy of the Winter court. Glacial, and commanding. “Okay…” you mumble, glancing away from the hard look. 

Azriel seems to be satisfied with your adherence, turning in the doorway a few moments later, obviously expecting you to follow. 

And you do. 

————

Your breaths have turned somewhat deep, chest rising and falling evenly, but he’ll keep you here a little longer before waking you. 

His book is sat—finished—on the arm of the sofa, his wings draped over its back, empty plates discarded in the sink where his shadows had carried them once you’d both finished. You’re a pleasant change to the personalities he becomes accustomed to in his own family, stubborn and sometimes standoffish. It’s pleasant to simply have to apply a slightly cold look to you, and have you fumbling beneath it, acquiescing to his demands. 

Azriel glances to his side, and takes you in.

At some point between finishing your meal and starting on your own book, you’d become lethargic and dozy—he’d known you’d be going to bed soon, and there’s a kernel of satisfaction in his chest that he would know you so well. That he was right, rather. 

Your head had tipped onto his shoulder, fingers clasped greedily between the pages of your book, begging to be read for only a little longer but lethargy had stolen you away. Your lips are mostly shut, a small parting between the centre points where your upper lip rises from your lower one, and you look quiet. A little later he’d been stumbled by his instincts, lithely wrapping an arm around you so your cheek smushed against the crook beneath his shoulder, and you’d seemed almost more contented, fingers sliding out from the home of your book to lazily grapple across his stomach, delicately snaring their way around his side, arm strewn across his lap as you huddled into his warmth. Your comparatively small figure instinctively yearning for the physical company of another. 

Azriel dips his head, taking a soft inhale of your scent—you smell like the sun, and grass that’s been freshly cut, something thick and blossomy laying beneath it. His nose brushes your hair, but he hardly registers it, pressing closer so you’re flush with his side, his hands splaying across your soft and supple form, dipping beneath the blanket you’d carried with you from your bedroom. His fingers glide subconsciously up your arm, wrapping over your shoulder as he brings his lips to graze the crown of your head.

Hazel eyes snap open, and he pulls himself away, heart beating hard in his chest. 

Azriel tries to cast his gaze elsewhere, anywhere aside from the lovely female curving herself into his side, like a small animal nestling during hibernation. Her scent is in his lungs, in his body, in his blood, wrapping itself securely around him, but he knows he can’t allow himself any further. You’re Eris’s sister—there’s enough baggage in that title alone to keep him far, far away. 

There should be enough, anyway. 

Shadows brush a strand of hair from your face, and you shift in your sleep, hand briefly clutching at his side as you shift, practically pressing your face into the crook of his shoulder and neck, each teasing breath tickling the sensitive skin. Azriel clenches his jaw, and lightly grips your hair, plying you back so he can see your sleep-softened face. He swallows thickly when he sees your lips are parted a little wider, his blood heating as he stares quietly, intently. His breathing becomes a little shallow, and he finds himself leaning forward ever so slightly, as if drawn in. 

But then he looks away, brows narrowed in deep disgust at himself. He will never see you through a romantic lens—you’re Eris’ sister. Those affectionate touches that sometimes seep from his fingertips into your skin cannot happen. 

Ever. 

Azriel glances back at you, before firmly shoving you down into the sofa.

He knows can be a little rough with your body without having to worry about any consciousness surfacing. 

Your head is tipped over the far arm, exposing the elegant length of your unmarked neck, spine arched to fit the curve of the furniture and he presses his lips to the small swell in your throat, pressing firm, rough kisses down to your collar bones, pulling your scent down in deep lungfuls. His roughened palms guide your thighs apart, and his hips press tight between your own, firmly grinding against the soft heat of your sex as he satiates the wicked desire curling down his spine. It’s been months since he last saw you, and he denies himself any sort of sexual relief if it is not like this—with you with him. 

He still remembers the searing disgust he’d felt after the first time one of these thoughts had shown to have such a firm grasp on his desire. But then he’d understood it was fine to play with you sexually, to dangle you across his fantasies, flip you into various positions so long as he kept his lust under control. He’d come to understand that it was better this way, to contain you within his mind through such an objectifying lens. 

To reduce you so fundamentally to something he could toy with. 

Azriel stiffens when a small noise slips from your throat. Beneath his lips he can feel the fluttering beat of your pulse, erratic and wild, like a butterfly caught in a web. Desperate to escape with the trembling stutter of its lovely, delicate wings. 

He shifts his weight onto one arm, allowing the other to slide between your legs, palm cupping your heat, and he groans softly, head hanging so his brow is resting between your breasts. His breathing becomes laboured, lips grazing against your skin as his fingers splay across your underwear, able to feel the small bump at the apex of your thighs beneath the knuckles at the base of his fingers. 

Digits press tentatively against your entrance, and he exhales heavily, lust building in his chest, but…

Azriel pulls away from your body, his muscles soaked and groaning with lethargy and strain. 

His jaw works, steadying himself while his shadows rearrange your disarrayed limbs, closing your legs and bringing the blanket to wrap across your torso again before returning to him. 

He takes a steadying breath, calming his arousal before settling himself at the furthest part of the sofa, allowing his shadows to creep back over to you, waking you from your sleep. 

————

You blink wearily, eyes peeking open and then you’re squirming gently against the cold brush of something swirling over the intimate expanse of your throat, brushing beneath your ear. 

With some effort, you manage to sit upright, spine hurting from being curved over the arm of the sofa, and you gain awareness swiftly enough to spot the darkness darting away back to its master. Your lips part slightly as you inhale for a sigh, limbs stretching, shoulders pulling back to relieve the tension that’s stitched them together. You look about, a yawn rising from your throat and you cover your mouth as you rub your eye. “I…did I fall asleep?” You ask, trying half-heartedly to blink away some of the sleep and get your bearings. 

“You fell asleep,” Azriel confirms, not looking up from his book, apparently nearing its end. “How long for?” You ask, pushing back as another yawn seeks to rise from your chest, fatigue weighing heavily on your eyes. He turns a page, attention following along the lines, reaching the sentence’s end before responding. “Half an hour.” 

You glance up at the clock on the mantle piece, realising how late it’s gotten. You hope this won’t make it difficult to fall back asleep once you get to bed. 

Pulling the blanket a little closer across your chest, legs bending further at the knee to curl into yourself, you glance to where the empty plates should be but realise he must have already put them away. “The food was nice…” you hedge, feeling a thinks is in order, even if you didn’t ask for it. Azriel makes a sound of disinterested acknowledgement, and your lips press together in a thin line. Wasn’t the reason behind making food to supposedly ease the tension between you? 

“You know, I’m not sure there’s any point in saying this, since you’re so stubborn,” you say, trying to get his attention. Hazel eyes pause over the page, before his gaze is shifting to rest on you, his lips slightly downturned with displeasure. You swallow, but persist. “It wouldn’t hurt you to be less cold to me, Azriel.” You wait, tension tightening in your throat for his reply, but he remains utterly silent, and you gather he has nothing to say to you. 

You incline your chin. “You know you’re the only person I really get to see.”

“You get to see your brother,” he replies evenly.

“Really, Azriel? What was the point of even making this meal? Of visiting me? You could do it all without me even aware, but choose to make your presence known,” you argue, clutching the blanket tighter. “It’s like you’re trying to make this as miserable and as isolating as possible. It’s like you’re trying to punish me for something I’m not even guilty of.” 

“I don’t owe you my time.” 

“No…but you don’t owe me coldness either.” 

His hazel gaze sharpens, heavy brows narrowing to darken the hollow atop his eyes. “Very well. Come here.” 

Your shoulders stiffen, lungs tensing as you look at him, lips parting subconsciously in question. “…What…?” 

The Illyrian raises himself from the sofa, his towering, lethally muscled body unfolding, talon tipped wings flaring slightly at his back, shadows seeping from his skin, slithering onto the floor. His arms open threateningly, an icy glint in his eyes, palms open as if poised to wrap around your throat should you step too close. “Come here,” he repeats lowly, a sinister drag grating in his throat, a look like detest tucked between his brows. “If you want comfort, I can give you comfort.” 

His shadows deepen as they pool on the floor, obscuring the rug from sight, making it appear as though he’s stood atop inky black water that will swallow you beneath its icy surface the minute you get too close. 

And yet despite every obvious warning, every fibre of your body prickling at the looming danger, you can’t help the tremble in your fingers, or the feeble flutter of your heart as anticipation filters through your veins. 

The shadows are even colder than they look, an ice more piercing than the sharp bite of the air that settles across the land in the dead of winter, but when your arms tentatively wrap around his waist, he’s warm. Perhaps the only comfort you can find in his Illyrian-trained body—the jutting press of his hip bone; the way a handle of a blade is digging into your leg from where it’s strapped on the outside of his thigh; the sense of threat that wraps itself around you when his arms close in and you know you wouldn’t be able to escape should he choose to end you right there. 

You lay your brow against his chest, head lowered slightly as you memorise the feel of touch, skin tingling beneath the contact points, and you don’t want to let go. 

“Is this really so difficult for you?” You whisper. 

————

Would she cry if he kissed her? 

If he laced his destructive fingers through her hair so she was forced to look at him, and roughly set his mouth over hers? 

Or would she lean into it? 

Would she be so desperate for the feeling of touch against her skin, the taste of sweat in the air, the sound of lips and tongue and teeth meshing, that she would curve into it? 

Would the smell of iron bother her, if he chained her to his bed?   

————

You look up at him silently, but his features are hard and set, an impenetrable wall behind his eyes and you sense you won’t get anywhere with him. Your brow falls back to settle on his chest, taking in the last moments before you have to pull away. 

But his scar-toughened fingers lace through your hair so you’re forced to incline your head to look at him, and his lips are parted as if to speak, but he pauses. Watching you. 

Your eyes scan his features, but he’s unreadable. 

His thumb shifts ever so slightly against your scalp, as if to stroke across you, but he doesn’t. Instead his grip loosens, and it’s time to step away. 

“Get to bed,” he orders quietly. Releasing you. Lightly pushing you away. 

“You need some rest.” 

————

You’re thrown off by the encounter. He’s so contradicting.

Why be so cruel about your brother only to turn around and offer you a warm meal? Why the cold attitude only to allow you to sleep peacefully at his side? Why so threatening when he lets you so close? 

And now this, too. 

You don’t know how to feel, and it scares you. 

Laying atop your bed are three folded shirts, a cut of square paper laying atop the stack. 

‘Use these for now. More will arrive next week.’

You remain at the edge of the bed, fingers turning slack as you stare at the small script, blanket sliding down one shoulder. Blue, dark blue, and black. It’s easy to tell they’re far too large. It’s easy to tell they’re probably…

The blanket pools on the floor, shaky fingers raising the dark blue fabric from your bed, the shirt unfolding. You bring the collar to your face, pressing your nose into the material, inhaling softly. 

They’re his. 

Your lips part on a trembling exhale, heart fluttering as your fingers stutter in the fabric, inhaling deeper, trying to memorise the scent. It’s the only comfort you can get, kept so far from the world. 

It’s an effort to part with the newly discovered comfort, worried he might change his mind and remove them by the time you’ve emerged from your washroom—but they’re still there, exactly where you left them. From the sound of it you’ll only have these for a week, and then he’ll take them back. Is it worse to give comfort then take it away, or to never give it at all? 

You can’t help but feel this is the crueler of the two options. 

The linen is somewhat rough against your freshly softened skin, rasping over your arms, shoulders, breasts. The hem settles at your mid-thigh. The sleeves are too long but you don’t roll them—the size is comforting. Like you’re wrapped up and looked after. You’re on your own for so much of your life, you rely on yourself the overwhelming majority of the time—you can permit this dependence. 

Maybe you can permit a little more, too. 

Crawling onto your bed, you carefully unbutton the black shirt, laying your pillow on the interior, before buttoning it back up. You pause, looking down at the make-shift body. Teeth push against the inside of your bottom lip, tugging on it in thought. Is this okay? Is it weird? 

You can’t let him see, is all. You’ll unbutton it in the morning. Fold it up and put it with the blue one. Hide any evidence. 

But for now, you settle atop your mattress, still unaccustomed to the rasp of linen against your skin, the presence of his scent filling your room, infusing into your sheets, and pillow. It’s dark enough outside for you to feel safe enough to admit that it’s heavenly. It’s dark enough to settle beside it, wrapping your arms around the soft ‘torso’, pulling it to your chest. It’s dark enough for you to not feel ashamed as you treasure the safety his scent brings, easily sending you off into sleep. 

It’s dark enough for you to not have seen the shadows lurking beneath your bed. 

To not have felt the eyes watching you intently. 

Just waiting for you to let down your guard. 

————

The house is dark, and the house is silent.

You’re asleep, and there’s oil in his veins, burning like liquid fire, making him soar. 

It’s just you, him, and his shadows. Not a soul in sight. 

The Mother might even look away, turning her gaze from what he’s about to do—the wrongs he’s about to commit, and the decision he’s going to repeat. By all means you’re under his protection after Rhys decided to put you here, in his safe-house; he can make whatever call he likes. You’re his. 

Azriel moves like a wraith down the hallway, closing in as his hunger grows, starvation licking at his bones, threatening to turn them porous should he deny the need in his body for much longer, being drawn to you by an invisible thread that gleams resplendently within the darkness of his heart. As though a tether is guiding him to you. Calling him to you. 

Your bedroom door doesn’t make a sound when he enters; his pause is caused by an ulterior reason. A sickening satisfaction unspools in his gut as he paces to the foot of your bed, his shadows curling with glee at the sight they greedily hoard, stuffing their memory full of the view before them. How you’re curled beneath the duvet, a pillow clutched to your front, hugging it between your thighs, cheek pressed to the swell of the cushion where your arms have pushed the feathers to each end. The dark blue collar he can see peeking out from the floral-patterned duvet. 

He allows his hand to palm himself through his leathers once, needing to take the edge off before continuing. Reminding himself stimulation is yet to come. 

Shadows seep forward onto the bed, crawling across the pale coloured sheets, clutching at their edge before slowly dragging the coverings away, revealing your sleep-softened form. 

Azriel pauses. His breathing quickens, pulse spiking as his lips part, pupils surely dilating to take as much of you in as they can, the world noticeably brightening as he makes room for more light to filter in. Better to see you with. And the— 

He inhales deeply, dragging a laboured breath into his lungs in attempts to steady himself, spotting the black shirt wrapped around the pillow you’re clutching. Your thighs wrapped around the cushion you’ve draped in his shirt, saturated with his scent, chosen to keep so close to your body when you’re at your most defenceless. 

You shift in your sleep, squeezing ‘him’, nosing at the collar of the shirt. 

It’s like you’re doing it to entice him. For the sole purpose of keeping his attention, provoking his arousal. Even in the depths of unconsciousness. 

Azriel swallows, shadows rolling the thick duvet to the side to make room for their master on the bed, before softly trickling toward you, making to wrap around your legs… He changes his mind, calling them back at once as he settles on the mattress, not a single sound to be heard as he infiltrates the safety of your bedroom. 

You skin is soft and hot beneath his hands, hands that wrap around your calf, cupping the interior of your knee to bring them apart, shadows afforded the job of removing the pillow, rolling you onto your back. 

His breathing has deepened, arousal thoroughly distorting his scent as he takes in the way the fabric drapes over your form. The hem has ridden up your thighs, revealing your hips and the pure white cotton covering you; the collar is undone, teasingly exposing the length of your throat to him, taunting him with something he can’t have; the dark blue fabric settles perfectly over your breasts, erotically draped to hint at form without the crudeness of nudity. He doesn’t want or need the aid of sight, of nakedness. Keeping you hidden, and wrapped in darkness is much more enticing. 

Azriel reaches forward, having settled between your legs—bent at the knee and propped up by his shadows—daring to coast his palm up your front, gliding between your breasts in a show of ownership, fingertips lightly settling on your sternum. Feeling the rise and fall of your chest with each regular, even breath. His eyes trail lower to where the hem of the dark blue shirt meets the bare skin of your thighs, and he takes a peek at what’s beneath. Dragging the hem up by only a few inches, just shy of your navel. Azriel’s thumb skims the area, fingers grazing with a feather-light touch across your abdomen. Imagining what it would be like to feel his outline beneath his palm. 

His eyes roll with arousal, before he’s retracting to attend to himself, gripping his cock in his hand, hot and heavy and aching. 

Azriel swallows, giving himself the reprieve of a few dragging strokes to alleviate the tension before lazily swiping his thumb over his tip, gathering the precum that had begun leaking. He looks at the creamy liquid beaded on his thumb; looks at the cream colour of cotton; looks back. Azriel reaches forward, focus glued to your cunt as he rubs his thumb against the apex of your thighs, cotton darkening as the damp saturates, pressing his arousal into you. He bites down on a groan. 

It’s been so long—he can feel it in his body, the want, the need. He’s deprived himself of you for far too long, getting caught up in court matters—with your father finally dead, and your eldest brother assuming the throne, times have been turbulent, alliances on the constant verge of crumbling, but he’s seen it all through. And now he gets to destress. Away from Velaris, away from Windhaven, away from the Hewn City. All that tension, all that strain, and a week or so confined to this house with you. 

He wishes he could put bruises into you, rub your wrists raw from iron shackles, litter your thighs with his teeth marks and imprints of his fingertips, just so he could truly break the new High Lord of Autumn. He finds his lips curved at the thought of Eris discovering even a fraction of the nightmarish things he’s done to you…

Azriel remembers the first step he’d taken on this path. How he’d wanted to see you squirm. 

You hadn’t shut up when you’d first been moved here, constantly nagging him for updates on what was happening, pawing for details about your brother, testing his patience. He’d wanted to knock you down a peg or two, give you reason to fumble when looking him in the eyes, so he’d taken to slipping small doses of an aphrodisiac into your tea just to have the pleasure of watching you squirm. Trying to pretend nothing was wrong when he was watching, not wanting him to know the instincts occurring within your female body. He remembers how he’d provoked an argument, making you believe you’d started it…how he’d stared you down then, and you’d buckled. Skin hot, pulse fluttery in your throat. He’d wanted to grip you by your soft cheeks and force you to look at him…the satisfaction would have been worth it. Seeing how ashamed you would be, thinking the arousal was your own fault…thinking that he thought the arousal was your own fault. 

That would have been good to see Eris’ reaction to. 

Or the time he’d released into his hand, then spending minutes patiently watching the slow drip, drip, drip of cum as it fell into your mouth. The last of it smeared across your lips. Salt on your tongue in the morning. 

How would the High Lord of Autumn react, how far would he break to know that all he sacrificed had been for nothing? Risking torture if their alliance had been discovered, the bargain made Under The Mountain, leading the rest of Prythian to believe you dead for the sake of keeping you safe. And instead you’d been tossed straight into the Spymaster’s cruel and crooked hands, free to twist and warp and break. 

And with Eris out of the way, he could… 

Azriel’s eyes go briefly out of focus, centuries of discipline slipping as he settles over your sleeping form, tentatively lowering himself to your throat. Shadows tip your face to one side, your cheek laying against the pillow, exposing the tendon keeping your head on your shoulders. Hot breath fans across your skin, lungs trembling with desire, exhaling puffs of yearning that he has no right to possess. 

His wings shift before turning lax, settling across the bed as he gently drags the flattened end of his tongue up the skin of your neck. 

His cock twitches against his stomach, almost painfully hard from the arousal burning in his blood. 

Like before when you’d fallen asleep in the living room, he shifts his hips to rest between your own, the thick length of him resting bare against the pale cotton. His breathing becomes laboured as he rolls his hips, precum leaking from his tip, drizzling down the underside of his cock, smearing down his length and saturating your underwear. Rubbing himself against you, the pressure created between your bodies like liquid heaven. Relief bottled and stored, ready for him to take from whenever he pleases. 

He needs release. He doesn’t want to wait any longer, and he doesn’t have to either. You’re right here, legs open and ready. Won’t your underwear look pretty with his cum dripping over it? Where he can rub more of it into the material? Let you unknowingly sleep with his release tucked so intimately between your thighs. 

Gods, the mental image has him panting for breath, sitting back as he wraps his hand more roughly around his cock, affording swift, hard strokes to himself, keeping that picture in his mind. But what if… 

Azriel forces himself to stop, panting heavily now, his eyes widened marginally from the idea that happened to pass into his mind. Hazel eyes flick down to your underwear, his hand squeezing his cock as he pauses. He swallows, skin feeling hot and flushed. Maybe he could…

He swallows again before he releases himself, ignoring the shake in his hands as his fingers slide beneath the cloth at your hips, latching onto the band before slowly, carefully inching it away. Parting it from your body, pulling the cotton up your thighs, cresting the curve of your knees, delicately removing it from your legs, pulling the underwear from beneath your feet. Azriel stares at what’s now in his hands. Hazel eyes flick to your bare heat, then back to the underwear. 

Breathing deeply, he raises the white cotton to his face, nosing at the fabric before taking a lick. His hand moves on its own, stroking his cock as he pulls the scent of your sex into his lungs, wanting it to disperse into his bloodstream, become part of his body. His discipline is slipping, and fast. He doesn’t want to obey it. He doesn’t need to, here. 

His heart jumps with relief at the stark realisation. There’s no need for him to keep his discipline—so long as he leaves no trace of himself that you’ll find, he can do whatever he likes. Whatever his mind can conjure up. It’s a dangerously freeing thought. 

Azriel shifts closer, his heart pounding as he settles between your thighs, inhaling deeply when he guides the head of his cock to nestle at your entrance. Not going in, just resting there, slotted nicely between your lips. You feel so warm. So warm, and wet, and inviting. Gods, you’re wet. Not enough to make an entrance smooth—not by a long shot with his size—but he can still feel the tell-tale signs of arousal. 

Uncaring for dragging this out any longer, he spreads your underwear over his palm so the dampened gusset will rub against his cock, stroking himself repeatedly, wanting to see what you’ll look like with cum splattered over your bare pussy. Gods, you’ll look divine, with release wetting your cunt. How pretty it’ll be, getting to rub it into your clit. 

Azriel gasps deeply, biting down on a growl as the high hits him, muscles turning taut, bucking into his hand as pleasure overrides his senses. He opens his eyes to watch as he spills onto your heat, spurting thick ropes of cum between your legs. Fuck, he can’t help himself. His hips buck just as the thought passes through his mind, the head of his cock slipping inside of you and he refuses to let himself pull back, emptying the rest of his cum into your cunt. 

It takes a while for him to realise what he’s done—the mess he’s made on you and inside of you. 

Fuck. 

Azriel heaves a sigh of frustration, realising he’s also made a mess of your underwear, strings of cum already sticking the fabric to his cock. He needs to clean it up. 

Discarding your underwear for now, he reaches forward, applying a gradual pressure to your abdomen in attempts to begin squeezing his release out of you. Azriel licks his lips when he watches it begin to drip from your entrance, scooping it up with his middle and forth finger. More slides out after. So wasteful. He needs to get it all out. Azriel slides his fingers inside of you, curling them to try and guide his release out. 

A quiet sigh slips from your lips. 

Azriel turns rigid. His cock twitching. 

Hazel eyes flick down to your bare heat, and he repeats the motion, this time watching you. Your features scrunch faintly, and he realises he can make out the pinch of your nipples through his shirt. He leans forward slightly, shadows attentive as he slides his thick fingers in further, his attention narrowing entirely onto you as he presses upwards. A noise gets caught in your throat. Something sweet sounding, and wanton.

Azriel presses deeper, fingers sliding in further, curling lightly, pushing and rubbing at different parts until…

You flinch in your sleep, a softly startled moan slipping from your lips. 

He curls the pads of his fingers into that spot, bending them at the knuckle so the digits slant into the part that’s dragging these reactions out of you. He pushes against it, hungry for more, thumb habitually settling on your clit, oscillation made easier by the slippery cum splattered across your cunt…that he’s feeding back into you. 

Azriel bites down on a groan as he scoops more of it up before pressing his fingers back to your entrance and shoving it in, pushing what was already released inside further, tucking it away as he searches for that spot again. He needs it to be kept inside of you. It’s not enough to have it coating you, he needs you to unknowingly have it within your body, perfectly storing it away. A secret shared between him and your cunt that you’re oblivious to. 

The rise and fall of your chest is much more pronounced, and he wants to push the shirt out of the way so he can lay his mouth over your breasts, flick his tongue over your doubtlessly sensitive nipples. How would you react to that? With his fingers hitting that spot, his thumb over your clit, his tongue and shadows pinching and licking at your breasts? 

You’d come on the spot. 

————

You jolt awake, panting and breathless. Far too hot, and…fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck… Mother above…

Your hands scramble, shoving the duvet away as you roll on top of ‘him’, thighs straddling the pillow as your hips buck frantically. You cry out as one of the buttons scrapes across your clit, teeth pushing into your lip to muffle the moans working up from your chest, grinding down against the clothed cushion, dragging your hips across the plush comfort, aiming for the buttons. 

Panting and flushed, you stiffly roll onto your back, flopping down into your mattress trying to regain your breath. 

You glance down at yourself. Thighs parted, bent at the knee. The shirt riding up your stomach that you hastily push back down. 

Teeth prod at your lower lip, toes curling as your fingers explore between your legs. Slipping beneath the band of your underwear. They come away glistening, a thick, creamy strand connecting your digits to your cunt. 

You flush, hurriedly drying your fingers on your inner thigh, trying to get rid of the evidence. 

Cauldron boil you, that’s never happened before. Sure, you’ve had hours of heightened sensitivity, when you could feel every hair on your body, every scrape of fabric across your skin, horribly aware of the clothing touching your shoulders, your arms, your breasts, but never something so intense. Never…this. 

It’s always when Azriel’s around. 

Shame sparks, and you tug your hand away from your heat. Rolling quickly onto your side to pretend it away. 

You clutch the pillow tighter to your front, soothing your erratic pulse with that scent. His scent. Maybe because you’ve just woken it feels stronger, thicker…heavier; more concentrated than you remember it being. Probably your own arousal mixing with the remnants of what he left of the shirts. 

Gods, you’re not going to be able to look him in the eyes tomorrow. Not without thinking about…

You beg your mind to shut up. 

He’s the only male you’re getting to see. It makes sense your body might instinctively want him.

You just wish you didn’t feel so guilty for thinking of him, when you were on top of that pillow.

————

It doesn’t take long for you to nod back off, and Azriel internally relaxes. 

His skin is too hot, arousal spiking his temperature to an almost unbearable degree, but he’d had to escape quickly when he’d felt the high rising in your body. A sixth sense telling him you were there. Maybe he can’t be as rough as he thought with you. 

He knew he should have stirred in some of that sleeping powder with your meal. 

Next time. 

First, he needs to deal with the heat radiating from his body, the remnants of arousal still prominent in his blood. The still aching weight of his cock. But he’s done for tonight. That was a close enough call on its own; he doesn’t yet want to resort to ties and blindfolds and gags. Even if that sixth sense tells him you might enjoy it, if done right. With how eagerly you’d pressed yourself against him, how you’d nuzzled up to the pillow, how quickly you’d come on his fingers…

This time he doesn’t deny himself the pleasure of imagining what it would be like having you move for him. Getting to see how you might arrange yourself under or over him. What you might like to touch, and suck, and ride. 

The steamy heat of your bathroom isn’t helping with his temperature. 

He should leave. 

But next time…

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

az taglist: @azrielshadows1nger @jurdanpotter @positivewitch @nightcourt-daydreaming @assassinsblade @marvelouslovely-barnes @v3lv3tf0x @kalulakunundrum @vellichor01 @throneofsmut @vickykazuya @starlitlakes @kksbookstuff @feerique @ratgirl2020

It’s entertaining coming across this ask again because I’ve a wip (short series) for dark Elain called Taking A Bite Of Eve’s Red Apple where this is basically the dynamic/vibe Elain has but the reader has her obvious moment of ‘oh fuck I’m into this’

I feel I’m coming out of a period of writing unapologetic noncon (where the perpetrator is degrading of the reader rather than appreciative/in awe of them which I feel is what I’m now much more inclined towards) so if I ever were to write this (I realise I did just automatically assume smut would be involved, sorry if that wasn’t your intention and I just shoved it in anyway) it would definitely feature stalky manipulative Az but it would also feature Shy Freaky reader because they’re mates and perfect for one another

Seriousness aside though…

This idea is apparently up for the taking if anyone's interested...👀 I can imagine this would be a lot of fun to write as a drabble and leave the end hanging just as Az comes to pick reader back up after having snuck out of the their bedroom...😳🫣

And oh my gosh but imagining Az has picked out pretty clothes for her to wear too? Stuff he knows she’ll like but is secretly a little hurt when she refuses to touch any of it? And tries to squirm out of his hold when he gently pulls her into his chest at night?

Or imagine Rhys is secretly the one goading Az further? When Az reluctantly admits she isn’t warming up to him, Rhys advises showing her what sort of male he is in bed—she’ll never see him as a lover if he keeps acting like a friend. He should show her what she’s missing 🫣