#feysandriel

"Come on," Azriel coos, strumming his fingers over Feyre's clit as she shudders against his chest. Rhys groans beneath her like her pussy is choking the life from him, and perhaps it is. But it's finally his turn to play. "Give me another, baby. You can do it. One more."

"Az, Azriel please," she whispers, her palms grinding into Rhys's chest. He takes it, a wicked gleam beneath the orgasm haze shining in his eyes. He loves this shit, they both do. And he loves making them come. "I can't."

"What a shame, my love. I'm not stopping until you do." Feyre sucks air in a sob between her teeth, and he thinks about stopping – he does think about it. But her head drops back against his chest, open want shining in her eyes, and he pushes her further. She wants this, she wants him to do this to her, Rhys wants her to milk him fucking dry.

He raises his fingers to his lips, sucking the taste of her from them as his shadows find her clit instead. This time, when they work the swollen bud, she screams. Her hips jerk in Rhysand's grip, and he trembles as he helps her chase her own release, unable to do more than watch her.

They both watch her.

She glows with pleasure between them, light shining beneath her skin. Their own fallen star. What a beauty to behold, to be holding. "Sweet Feyre," Azriel whispers, cupping her jaw. "Let go for me."

The door has barely shut when she practically launches herself at her father. Pressing her whole body against his, so done with all of the 'proper' distance he maintains when other people are around—snuggling on the couch the only exception. Warm and solid against her, she sighs happily, hands wandering beneath the hem of his shirt, fingers tracing the contours of his muscles.

He laughs above her, a fond, rumbling purr she can feel in her chest. Dips his head to capture her lips with his own, only sweet for a second before his tongue forces its way past the seam of her lips, licking into her mouth, needy, the same way she needs him, lets him have his way with her mouth, goes soft and pliant in his arms, daddy knows best.

Soft sigh of pleasure, sinking into that pink, sparkling, sugar-spun feeling he always pulls out of her—

—somewhere in the back of her mind, the sound of the door opening again, but she doesn't realize.

"Ah, so that's how it is," her uncle—Az, thank god—says, staring at them from the doorway.

Her whole face is burning up, shame and guilt and fear roiling in her stomach and curling up, winding around her ribs; someone else knows.

Last time they were found out, it was her mother, and, well, that ended the way that it did, a woman erased from the world. But this is Azriel, and he means more to both her and her father than her mom ever did, which is maybe a little fucked up, but true. Doesn't know if her father would be able to pull this trigger. She certainly can't.

Please don't be mad, please understand, please don't give him a reason—

Looks up, her father's lips stained the same shade of pink as hers, irrefutable evidence, and he's staring at his brother with a single eyebrow raised. Knows this look. Are you going to tell me on your own, or am I going to have to make you?

Azriel stares back at them, hazel eyes glimmering, lips pulled into a tiny smirk and okay, that's not the look of someone who's going to try and separate them, but she doesn't know exactly what it is the look of, either. She almost physically startles in her father's hold when her uncle just laughs, true amusement, and it's so not the reaction she expects. "I thought, after Helena, maybe, but," he huffs again, gesturing at them, "I also thought, y'know, Rhys probably would have told me, if that was the case. Apparently not.”

"Az—"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone. You just wanted to keep your little Feyre all to yourself, yeah?"

She watches the interaction with morbid fascination, sees the bob of her father's throat as he swallows, some unspoken agreement passing between them as her uncle nods, still smirking. "There was enough to worry about with just the two of us, Az. She couldn't handle any more."

She couldn't handle any more.

Well, couldn't handle any more murder cover-ups, sure, but—that's obviously not what they're talking about, not when Azriel is pretty clearly fine with them.

Before she can ask, though, the conversation moves on.

"Fair enough. If you're ever inclined to share…" a pointed look to her, heat flaring in his hazel eyes, and oh, god, that's what they're talking about. She's what they're talking about. A year ago, it might have scared her; a year ago, she still felt like a silly little girl who jumped into too-deep water, fighting the current trying to relentlessly drag her under. A lot can change in a year, though. Now, Feyre dives down into the depths on purpose, letting her father sweep her away, letting herself drown in him. So if he wants… well, what's one more layer of fucked up on top of all the others? "Just let me know. Anyway, sorry for… interrupting. I'm just back to get my wallet. I think it fell out of my pocket and into your couch."

Possessive as her father is over her, when it comes to any boys in her class that express even mild interest in her, his quick nod surprises her. "I'll invite you over some time," he says, hand squeezing her waist. "Feyre would like that, wouldn't you, darling?"

Apprehension in her throat—weird, misplaced eagerness—that she has to swallow down. Remembers her uncle's hands soft in her hair, looks over his beautiful face (god, she'd die to have that kind of bone structure, her cheeks are still so baby-soft) and body, muscular and lithe and so her type. "Yes, daddy."

Twin smirks, two ravenous gazes fixed on her.

Can imagine it, the way they'd absolutely ruin her, fuck her into a teary, quivering mess, more hunger than human. The way they'd care for her, spoil her, turn her into the soft little girl that her mother never allowed her to be. Everything her father does, just echoed by a second person—her uncle, someone she already loves and trusts. The kind of love she already knows.

The kind of love that threatens to overwhelm her.

The kind of love that she would allow to swallow her whole.

The kind of love that has already consumed her.