#sjmxreaderweek

But now your wishes were smaller, because maybe then they would be answered. Maybe asking for something too big was too ambitious to be granted.

So you stuck with the little things.

For your mate to be safe, and healthy too. That even if couldn't return, he would know you'd wait for him and love him from afar. That wherever he was, he could look up at the same stars and think of you, and maybe even feel you close to him.

You shivered slightly when the breeze picked up. Goosebumps rose on your arms as if the wind itself was telling you to stop thinking and go to sleep instead.

With a sigh, you finally stood. It was late, and the bed was calling to you with the promise of a sleep filled with dreams of Rhys.

After one last glance at the quiet stars, you headed down the stairs toward your bedroom. You frowned at the light filtering out from beneath the door. You were sure you hadn't left it on before climbing up to the rooftop. But when you pushed it open, your heart stopped.

You recognized his scent before you even saw him.

Citrus and sea salt filled your lungs, and then the door swung fully open.

And there he was.

Rhys was sitting on the edge of the bed, but he shot to his feet the moment you turned the doorknob. He just stood there, posture rigid, as you stared at each other.

His skin was pale—so much paler than the last time you'd seen him. His hair was slightly longer, and his eyes no longer sparkled with life and joy as they once had. He was thinner. And he looked tired—so tired that you wondered when the last time he had gotten some sleep was.

“Rhys?” you whispered. You were still standing in the doorway, too stunned to move. “Is that you? Are you… are you really here?”

Maybe you had fallen asleep on that chair and this was just another dream.

How many times had you imagined this moment, both while asleep and awake? Or was this real and the stars—or the Mother, the Cauldron, all the forgotten gods you'd silently begged—had finally answered your prayers?

Rhys didn't smile. Didn't nod. He just swallowed.

“I'm here, but…”

Your heart dropped.

“But I'm not…” He struggled to find the words. “I'm not the same person you knew.”

Finally stepping into the room, you frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve changed,” he answered. His voice was trembling. “I've… done things, Y/N. I'm not the man I was fifty years ago.”

You weren't surprised—not really. You had changed too. Fifty years was a long time, even for an immortal, and whatever Rhys had been through had visibly taken a toll on him. You had almost expected it.

But you had never once seen him so nervous, so… scared. As if he was afraid you were going to reject him, to tell him you didn't want him anymore. It made you wonder what kinds of things he was talking about.

“What did you do?” you asked quietly.

Rhys hesitated. For a moment, you thought he might not answer. But then he spoke.

“Everything she asked me,” he whispered. He didn't look at you. “I hurt people for her. Innocents. And I… I served her.”

He paused again, and you braced yourself for what he might say next.

“In the bedroom.”

The air left your lungs.

Rhys finally looked at you again. His eyes—usually so full of stars and love—were now anguished and scared.

“I promise you, Y/N, it never meant anything.” He took a step toward you, then stopped, as if unsure you would allow him to come closer. “Everything I've done, the people I've hurt… it was all to keep Velaris safe. So that I could come back home… to you.”

“Rhys—”

“And it's selfish, but I need to know if… if there's a chance you could still love me.” He swallowed. “If you only knew what I've done… I'm not the man you fell in love with. Not anymore. And I don't know if you could love me like you used to.”

“Rhys,” you said, and this time your voice was firmer.

He stopped just as he was about to say something else and looked at you, waiting.

You studied him for a long moment. His hands trembled slightly—something that had never happened before. His cheeks were a little hollow, his waist just a bit thinner. You took in every detail, every little change in his body, noticing all of them as if you'd last seen him only the day before.

You didn't doubt his words. He was different, and he was hurting, haunted by whatever Amarantha had made him do. In and out of the bedroom, apparently.

But you had waited half a century for your mate to come home. You wouldn't let anything come in between you and him anymore, even if it was his own fear and guilt.

“Do you remember when we first said ‘I love you’?”

He seemed confused, but you went on.

“We went to that concert at the Rainbow Theatre and then you walked me home, and we kissed in front of my door.”

Rhys frowned. “That was when the bond snapped, not the first time we said ‘I love you’.”

You tilted your head to the side as you thought about it. “Right,” you muttered. “So was it that time we just went to the coffeehouse across from where I used to work because I didn't have time?”

You had always loved your job at the bakery. Cakes and cookies, loaves of bread and rolls, pastries and tarts—they were your element. You thrived surrounded by flour and yeast and chocolate chips. But that first job became more like a prison and burden, where you had to work impossible shifts and run on little sleep.

You had met Rhys when he came in one day to order a cake for his cousin's birthday. Something immediately clicked between the two of you, and shortly after you were going on dates in between your shifts. You sacrificed so many hours of sleep so you could see him in your free time, until Rhys had convinced you to quit and find something better.

Hurt flashed in Rhys' eyes, but there was a hint of frustration in his voice. “That was our first date.”

Though it killed you, you just nodded thoughtfully. “Then when was it? Do you remember it?”

Rhys took a deep breath. You couldn't tell it if he was trying to stay calm or if he was truly that hurt by your apparent memory lapse.

“It was the day before you opened your own bakery,” he said. He spoke slowly, as if it would help you remember. “You were trying new recipes and making me taste all of them until I felt sick. And when you asked why I didn't tell you I'd eaten too much cake, I said it was because I loved you and wanted to see you happy.”

He hesitated before meeting your gaze. “Do you really not remember?”

You shook your head and stepped forward. Finally standing in front of him, the urge to throw yourself into his arms—or to hold him in yours—was stronger than ever. But you held back for now and just looked up at him instead.

“I remember,” you said. “Of course I remember. Our first date, the first kiss, the first ‘I love you’... I remember it all.”

He opened his mouth, but you already knew what he was going to say.

You lifted a hand to his face, fingers shaking almost imperceptibly, and then you were cupping his cheek.

After almost fifty years, you were touching your mate again.

Rhys tensed under your touch, his eyes searching your face, and you had to fight against the lump rising in your throat to speak again.

“I asked because I wanted you to remember,” you murmured. “To remind yourself that you remember all those moments and a thousand more. That you've changed, but you're still you.”

Your other hand came to rest on his chest, right where his heart was. You could feel it, beating wildly beneath your palm.

“In here, you're still Rhysand. You're still my mate. And you always will be.”

His violet eyes shone, silver lining them.

“I don't need another chance to love you, Rhys,” you said, your voice a soft caress, like your thumb now brushing his cheekbone. “Because I never stopped loving you. And I never will. You're my mate, my love, and I'd wait another fifty years for you.”

His throat bobbed, and then tears rolled down his cheeks. You cupped his face with both hands, wiping them away with a soft smile.

It broke your heart to see him like this. To know that whatever he had done, whatever he'd been forced to endure, had been horrible enough to make him think your love for him could ever die.

“Open the bond,” you encouraged gently. “Let the wall come down, my love.”

It had killed you not feeling him for all those decades. When he'd reached out with his magic to warn you, he told you it was for your safety. That if someone had suspected he had a mate, Amarantha would come for you.

And you had understood. You had accepted it—you hadn't had another choice. But it had still killed you.

Sometimes, you would pull on the bond, like you had done hundreds of times before, but you could never feel his presence on the other side. As if he had never been there. As if he were gone.

It had terrified you. You had no way of knowing if he was alright or hurt. Would you know it if he had died? With the mating bond shut, would you be able to feel it, to sense it? Would your heart stop beating without warning? The doubts and nightmares had haunted you for fifty years.

But now he was here. You were together again.

Rhys released a shuddering breath. He searched your eyes again, but all he found there was love and understanding.

A few seconds passed in silence.

And then you felt it—that feeling deep within your chest, like a string tied to your heart, pulling you gently toward him.

The warm, glowing mating bond.

A ghost presence in your chest for almost fifty years, but no more. And never again.

You both gasped at the intensity of it. You could sense that Rhys was still holding back, still trying to shield you from the full weight of his anguish and guilt. So you flooded the bond with your love, your relief, your joy at finally being with him again.

Slowly, Rhys leaned forward until his forehead rested against yours. “I've missed you, my darling. Every minute of every day.”

A sob tore from you, and then you were crying too. Your arms looped around his neck to pull him closer, fingers tangling in his hair as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. His hands slid to your back, holding you even tighter.

“I missed you too,” you choked out. “And I love you, Rhys. Please, never doubt that.”

His tears seeped through your shirt, dampening the fabric and your skin beneath it, but you couldn't have cared less.

You were holding him. And he was holding you. Everything was going to be fine.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

You didn't know how long you stood there in the center of the room, just holding each other. Minutes or hours—it didn't matter. You had no intention of letting him go ever again, and you knew he felt the same. You could spend the rest of your life like this and it would be enough.

It didn't matter what he had done, what Amarantha had forced him to do. Maybe one day he would tell you. Maybe he wouldn't. But even then, nothing he said could ever make you stop loving him.

If you had to spend the next few years proving to him that he wasn't the villain he thought he'd become, then so be it. You would show him that, however changed he might be, he was still your mate.

He was still—and would always be—your Rhys.

And he was finally home.

*lovely divider by @slytherin-pen

💙🤍💙🤍💙

He watched you from the shadows, hazel eyes taking in every movement, every breath. You were the one thing he couldn’t keep himself from, and nearly couldn’t control himself when in your presence.

Not that you’d seen him before, or had even talked to him.

He’d been very careful to stay out of sight, to keep his affections secret. Fear of rejection ran deep in his blood, and he would be damned if he lost you before he’d ever had a chance to truly have you. So he watched, his shadows watched, monitoring your movements throughout the city.

You liked the café closest to your cottage, and went there every morning for at least a coffee if not breakfast. The bookstore next to the Sidra and a shop filled with threads, fabrics, and yarn in every shade were your favorite haunts. You worked in a nursery, tending to plant after plant with unwavering patience. Once a week your friends dragged you to Rita’s to blow off steam and you danced without a care in the world, the hem of your dress riding dangerously high up, attracting not only Azriel’s attention, but that of many a single male.

Those nights made his blood boil, knowing that you weren’t his yet, giving him no right to protect you from their vile gazes. Not that it stopped him.

Occasionally, he would let his shadows trail after you, ensuring that you made it home safely while he stalked after one of the males who had stared at you so brazenly. Truthteller easily wrung their secrets from them, and the pain they felt distracted Azriel from his soul deep need for you for the night. No one questioned where they went, and Azriel gave himself the slightest pat on the back for ridding Velaris of its filth.

Tonight, you were in the bookstore late. His shadows had whispered that you had finished a book not long ago, and had immediately made for the cozy store in search of the next volume.

While Velaris was usually safe, tonight there were a few males about, likely with less than stellar plans for how the night should turn out. But, there was a possibility that everything would work out perfectly in his favor tonight. While he hated the idea of you being scared for even a second, he despised the thought of you not being his even more.

Azriel continued watching you from across the street, tracking your movements through the glass windows and waiting for the right opportunity to strike.

💙🤍💙🤍💙

You knew it was a foolish idea, running to the bookstore after dark, but after finishing that book you had to have the next one, too greedy to wait one more sunrise to begin reading it.

Velaris was safe, you knew that. Nothing bad would happen to you on your walk home, and if it did - well, it wouldn’t.

You shook your head from your thoughts as your fingers ran over spine after spine, the smell of parchment filling your nose pleasantly. The sequel to the book you were reading was already in your grasp, and now you were looking for the last two in the series. One trip, three books. It would make the chilled air that much more worth it on your walk home, knowing that you had plenty of reading materials for the next few days.

"Find everything that you were looking for?” Gianna asked once you placed your finds on the counter, and you nodded.

“I always do,” you giggled, sliding over the gold pieces that you owed her while she placed your books into a small cloth bag, drawing the strings tightly to keep any possible moisture off of the precious items. “I’ll see you in a few days. Have a good night!” you said cheerily as you walked out the door, bag in hand.

“Get home safe!” Gianna called after you and you nodded, even if she couldn’t see it.

The walk home was only fifteen minutes in the day, though you walked more carefully now, unwilling to trip on uneven stones and scrape your skin. The wind whistled in your ears as you went, shivers wracking you every now and then when a particularly vicious gust would hit you. The streets leading to your home were mostly deserted, only a few people lingering about at this hour of night, before the real partying would begin.

You had the oddest sensation of being watched as you rounded the corner that put you on your street, the hair on the back of your neck prickling. You just barely managed to stop just before you slammed face-first into a male, lips already opening to apologize.

“Look what we have here, boys,” the male said, his voice low. “A pretty girl, all alone.”

Two other males came out of nowhere, surrounding you and pressing you against the wall. The stone bit into your back through your cloak and your heart hammered in your chest as you weighed your options. There was little you could do against three people, and you were unlikely to be able to outrun them if you managed to break away, but that was your only viable option. You gripped the bag in your hands tighter, preparing yourself to swing at the male to your right.

“What are you doing out here, sweet thing?” one of them asked, leaning in to close to sniff your neck. A shudder went through you, fear spilling through your veins.

“I think we should take you back to our place, keep you nice and warm,” the third said, two fingers tilting your head up to look him in the eyes. They were black and soulless, filled with promises of torment.

The first male chuckled at the suggestion. “That’s the best idea you’ve had in ages. Let’s go,” he said, a hand coming to grasp your arm.

You tried to wrench yourself free of his grasp, knowing that it was now or never if you wanted your freedom, to no avail. He began to tug you in the opposite direction of your house, your fear turning to full blown panic.

"I would stop where you are," a mysterious, commanding voice said from behind you.

“And I would tell you to mind your busine-” The male holding your arm dropped it as soon as he turned to look at the newcomer, fear shining in his eyes. “Oh, we- uhm-” He sprinted away, his cronies following him soon after.

You stared after them for a moment in disbelief before turning to face your savior. Your breath was stolen from you when you saw his face. His hazel eyes shined with warmth, and with his high cheekbones and elegant nose, he was perhaps the most handsome male that you had ever seen. Dark curls rested upon his head, paired perfectly with his golden-brown skin. The leathery, massive wings behind him only added to his allure.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asked softly, hazel eyes flicking over you in search of any injuries. You nodded your head, not feeling up to speaking quite yet. “Would you like for me to walk you home? I would hate for anything else to happen to you.”

You supposed you should have rejected his offer, after what had almost happened, but he had saved you. “Yes, please,” you said quietly, taking small steps towards him. The two of you walked in a peaceful silence as you approached your cottage, your fear ebbing away with each step by his side. By the time you reached your door, you felt safe once more. “This is me.”

“Very well. I do hope you’ll be more careful in the future,” the male said, moving to turn away from you.

“Wait!” He stopped in his tracks. “What’s your name?”

“Azriel, sweetheart,” he said with a soft smile. “And yours?”

You introduced yourself, blushing when he repeated your name - it had never sounded as lovely as it did when he said it.

“Stay safe, Y/N. And have a good night,” Azriel said, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand before leaving you alone on your doorstep.

When you entered your home and slid the lock back into place, you still felt your cheeks burning from the contact between your skin and his lips.

Azriel… So he was your High Lord’s Spymaster…

You wondered if you would ever see him again. If you were being honest… You hoped that you would.

💙🤍💙🤍💙

General Taglist: @daughterofthemoons-stuff @lilah-asteria @meritxellao @twismare @wrenisrad @icey--stars @le-nottibianche @archerxnn @littlest-w01f

Azriel was leaning against the wall with a crumpled bottle of water, shirt clinging to his chest, damp with sweat from the stage lights that still seemed to kiss his skin, glowing like he was something otherworldly. His eyes flicked up the moment you walked in, and for a split second, it felt like the world around you stilled. 

You stopped a few feet away, suddenly aware of everything—the way your hair clung to your neck, the heat in your face, the way your heart was hammering. His gaze never left you, heavy with something that had you second-guessing the ground beneath your feet. 

But then, that smirk. The one he wore on stage, in press releases, in interviews. You knew it was just part of the act—the same cocky, rehearsed charm he gave everyone—but directed at you it was different. He unscrewed the bottle of water, lifted it to his lips, and drank, the sound of it strangely intimate. Azriel’s eyes didn’t leave yours the whole time. 

“Hey, beautiful. What’s your name?”

You told him, voice caught somewhere between awe and nerves, your eyes locked on his—but your focus kept drifting, low and traitorous, to where his tattooed fingers twisted the cap back onto his bottle. It shouldn’t have been as distracting as it was. It was like he was already imagining what he’d do with his hands when he got them on you.

And when he repeated it, slow and low, like he was already tasting it—fuck. Your legs nearly gave out.

“I—” you swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, nerves flickering like static beneath your skin. “You were really great out there. I mean, I’m sure you hear that all the time. But I—” You winced, cringing at the way the words tumbled out too fast, already regretting trying to sound cool. “Sorry. That was stupid.”

But he just smirked, slow and sure, like he was amused at your attempt to stay composed. “No, it wasn’t.” His gaze never wavered, an almost predatory gleam in those hazel eyes as they flicked down to your lips, a deliberate pause in the air. And then, without missing a beat, he said, “C’mon.”

He reached for your hand. You hesitated for all of half a second, then took it. 

Azriel’s fingers laced through yours like it was second nature. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would reroute the entire rest of your life.

You followed him through the back hallway—dim, humming with bass still trapped in the walls, cords snaking across the floor, scattered flyers and crumpled setlists littering the ground. The air smelled like beer, sweat, and the heavy, lingering scent of smoke, the kind of grit that hung in the air after a show, when the stage lights had dimmed but the energy was still burning. His hand was warm, rough, calloused. You couldn't stop looking at it—or at him, broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of a silver chain nestled against his skin. 

“You always pick someone out of the crowd?” you asked, trying to sound casual. Normal. Like you hadn’t screamed every word of his songs twenty feet from the stage ten minutes ago.

He glanced over, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Only when she looks like she wants it bad.”

You huffed a laugh. “Pretty sure that was half the front row.”

“Yeah, but only one of them kept mouthing the guitar riffs.”

Your cheeks burned. “Okay, that’s embarrassing.”

“No,” he said, his voice low, “that’s hot.”

You couldn’t tell if your stomach flipped or bottomed out.

He kept walking like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain. “So, you come to a lot of shows?”

“First time seeing you live,” you lied. “Been a fan for a while, though.”

Azriel shot you a quick look, brow lifting. “Just a fan?”

You bit your lip, trying not to think too hard about the cardboard cutout you and your roommate had in your freshman dorm. Or the playlist in your phone titled ‘Azriel’s Soundtrack for When He’s Fucking Me Into Oblivion’. Or the handful of other Wings of Illyria concerts you’d gone to. You’d even bought tickets to a show they were only opening for—left after their set without even seeing the headliner.

“A big fan.”

He grinned—full teeth, devastating—and looked ahead again. But your gaze wandered, flicking toward every open door, every voice in the distance. Somewhere in your head, the whisper returned: what are you doing, this is insane—

Azriel slowed, his eyes still ahead. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you said, too quickly.

He stopped, turned to face you fully. The hallway was dim and quiet, the distant sounds of teardown echoing faintly behind you. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, the sharpness in his gaze as he studied you. 

“You keep looking around,” he said, voice low. “Don’t want to be seen with me or something? Any little boyfriends I should know about?”

You opened your mouth, intending to deflect, to joke—but his hand slid up, fingers brushing the bare skin beneath the hem of your shirt, and your breath caught.

“Jealous already? We haven’t even kissed yet.”

But he was still touching you, palm spreading against your waist like he meant to leave a print there. 

“Besides,” you let your eyes drag over him, slow and deliberate—the damp shirt clinging to every line of his chest, the lazy grip he still had on that half-crushed water bottle, his messy hair, the smudged eyeliner, the mouth that looked like it’d been made just to get you in trouble. “They don’t have a greenroom or a god complex, so… it’s not exactly a competition.”

He laughed—a short, rough thing, punched out of him like you’d caught him off guard. “You’re funny, (y/n).” And the way he said your name, so effortless, completely undid you in a way you wouldn’t admit to anyone.

“I am,” you managed, your voice tight, strained. “Actually hilarious, once I stop feeling like I might throw up.” And you meant it—you were two seconds away from either cracking a joke or passing out.

Another smile, slower this time. “Relax.” His mouth brushed your temple, his hand now fully beneath your shirt, fingers trailing up your ribs. “No one’ll see, just let me feel you.”

You shivered, not from the cold.

“I just…” you started, glancing past him again—down the hallway, toward a door that had just clicked shut. “I don’t wanna look like one of those girls.”

“What girls?”

“The ones naïve enough to think this means something.”

He didn’t flinch. Just leaned in, his voice like smoke and promise: “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

A pause, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hand slid lower—out from beneath your shirt, fingers trailing along your skin like he couldn’t quite stand to let go..

“Just means right now, it’s you and me.”

Then he opened the door to his dressing room, leading you inside with a gentle pull.

The door clicked shut softly behind you, and for a moment, the room was just a quiet, dimly lit space. A couch sat against the far wall, the remnants of a few discarded bottles and empty cups scattered around. The air felt heavier in here, but it was still comfortable, like you could actually breathe for a second after the chaos of the show.

Azriel stepped further into the room and tossed his water bottle onto the couch, letting it roll off with a dull thud. He turned to face you, arms casually crossed over his chest. The easy confidence was still there, but now, in the quiet of the space, it felt a little more grounded, less like the persona he wore on stage.

You couldn’t help but feel the tension—too much of it hanging between you, and yet neither of you seemed in any rush to break it. You shifted your weight, unsure what to do with your hands, your thoughts spinning.

“So…” Azriel started, his voice low, but with no real edge to it. “What’s the deal? You’re in here with me, but you’re not acting like you’ve got a thousand questions or a million things to say.”

You blinked, a little taken aback. “What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “Most people—fans, I guess—they want to talk about the band, the music, all that. They’ve got their script. But you just seem… quiet. A little offbeat, actually.”

You bit back a joke about a musician calling you offbeat—low-hanging fruit, and besides, his voice had gone too genuine for teasing. 

Instead you gave a small shrug, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you looked at him—really looked at him, like you weren’t afraid to see the man behind the persona. “I mean, what’s left to ask? You already put it all out there on stage.”

Azriel tilted his head, like he wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a challenge. “You think that’s all there is?”

“No, no. I think you’re really good at making people feel like they know you,” you said. “Even if it’s just a story you’re selling.” You paused, then added, “But it’s a good one! Makes people believe.”

That seemed to catch him off guard—just for a second. The smirk flickered, not gone, but softened at the edges. “And you? Do you believe it?”

“I think you want everyone to,” you said, stepping a little closer, feeling bold despite the nervous tremor in your fingers. “But I don’t think you care that much if I do.”

He laughed under his breath, low and rough. “You come with a warning label, or do people just figure it out too late?”

“Nope.” You popped the ‘p’ on purpose. “Not going to cry about you writing a song about someone else, either.”

Azriel’s brow quirked. “What if I said I was writing one about you right now?”

You rolled your eyes, grinning despite yourself. “Then I’d assume it’s a slow night for inspiration.”

That really made him laugh. A full-bodied, caught-off-guard kind of laugh that cracked the air open between you. He crossed the room slowly, like he didn’t want to scare you off, but couldn’t help himself either.

When he stopped in front of you—still standing just inside the doorway, your back barely brushing the closed door—there was less than a foot between your bodies. The heat off him was immediate, dizzying. His voice was lower now, rougher around the edges. “You always this blunt?”

“Only when I’m nervous,” you admitted, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Which, if we’re being honest, is kind of your fault.”

Something shifted in his expression—something that wasn’t the stage persona or the flirty smirk. Just Azriel, the guy beneath all that noise. “Don’t be nervous.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Easy for you to say.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth again, slower this time. He didn’t say anything for a beat, just stared at you like he was memorizing your face, the slope of your jaw, the way your lip caught between your teeth.

“I thought you’d be easy,” he said finally, voice almost more thought than words. 

Your brows rose. 

“Not like that,” he rushed out, hands half-lifting like he meant to ward off the offense. “I just meant—fuck—I thought I had a read on you. But I don’t.” 

You felt your breath hitch.

Azriel leaned in—not touching you, but so close you could feel his words against your skin. “It’s kinda messing with me.”

You swallowed, pulse a wildfire. “Good.”

And that was all it took.

He didn’t lunge or rush—just closed the space between you in a smooth, devastating slide. One hand skimmed your hip, the other cradling your jaw like you were something he’d been craving all night. His lips brushed yours, light and deliberate, a question more than a claim.

You answered without thinking—hands fisting in his shirt, mouth parting just enough to meet him halfway.

The kiss was slow at first—measured, like he was still trying to figure you out. But the second you sighed against him, something in him cracked. His hand tightened on your waist, and he deepened the kiss with a hunger that sent heat straight to your core.

He tasted like sweat and water and something darker, something heady. You barely had time to register how good it was before he was walking you backward, not breaking the kiss, just guiding you until your back met the door. 

Azriel kissed like he performed—confident, intense, a little overwhelming. Every press of his mouth stole more air from your lungs, every shift of his body pushing you harder against the door like he wanted to pin you there and never let you leave. His hands found your waist, your hips, your jaw—possessive but not rough, like he wanted to touch everywhere at once and didn’t know where to start.

You let him. For a while.

Because, god, it was good—the kind of kiss that melted your spine and rewired your thoughts. That made it very clear how he got away with every scandal, every rumor, every headline that should’ve been a red flag but somehow wasn’t.

But then something clicked. A flicker of boldness, of clarity, of fuck-it heat right behind your teeth.

You broke the kiss first—he chased your mouth for a second, frustrated, but you steadied a hand on his chest.

“What—” he started, just slightly breathless.

You didn’t answer. Just grabbed the hem of his shirt like it belonged to you now, like he already belonged to you. And then, with one sharp turn of your bodies, you had his back against the door.

Azriel blinked. His chest rose in a slow, surprised breath. “Oh?”

You didn’t smile. Not really. Just met his eyes as you sank slowly to your knees, one hand dragging down the front of his chest, watching the way his muscles jumped under your touch.

His pupils blew wide. “Fuck.”

“Still think I’m quiet?” you asked, voice low, teasing, as your fingers found the waistband of his jeans.

Azriel’s hand slapped flat against the door behind him, like he needed to ground himself.

“I take it back,” he muttered, already sounding wrecked.

“Good,” you said, undoing the button with infuriating slowness. 

That earned a groan—deep, appreciative, the kind of sound you’d file away forever. His eyes stayed on you, stunned, like he’d just realized you weren’t playing by any of the rules he thought you were. 

When you dragged his jeans down just far enough, he hissed through his teeth, head tipping back against the door with a quiet thud. You pressed a kiss just below his hipbone, slow and deliberate, then another. 

A soft hum vibrated in your throat as you mouthed against the fabric of his underwear, teasing, your lips tracing the ache there. You could feel the size of him even through the thin material, and god, he only seemed to get bigger the more he hardened beneath your touch. 

You wondered how it looked from his angle. A starry-eyed fan kneeling on the dirty carpet of his dressing room, the last place you ever thought you’d be—pressing your mouth to the bulge in his underwear like you were starved, desperate for a taste of him. 

Azriel’s breath hitched, and his hand found your hair, tugging lightly to guide you away from him. “Enough with the teasing,” he muttered, voice rough but the edge of amusement still there. “You’re killing me here.”

Finally you pulled the fabric down, taking him into your mouth inch by inch, and fuck, the sound he made when your mouth wrapped around him was downright obscene.

“Shit—” he choked, breath catching.

You didn’t rush. You savored. Licked and sucked and stroked with practiced ease, drawing long, lazy moans from him like you were playing an instrument you knew intimately. Your hand worked in tandem with your mouth, gliding over wet heat, and his thighs tensed beneath your grip.

“God, (y/n),” he murmured, voice strained. 

That did something to you—hearing him say your name like that. 

A second later, one of his hands finally threaded into your hair, not guiding, just there. His fingers dragged through the strands gently, like he needed to anchor himself. You looked up at him as you took him deeper, watched his chest rise in a sharp inhale, watched his mouth fall open just a little.

His hips twitched. His jaw clenched.

“Fuck, you’re—” His voice cracked off. “You’re really fucking good at that.”

You pulled off slightly, just enough to smirk against his skin, your tongue flicking out again with infuriating confidence.

“I know,” you said, breath warm. Then you took him again, slow, deep, letting your throat tighten around him. Your jaw ached, muscles sore from the effort, and distantly, you wondered how the hell this was going to fit inside you. The thought of it made you flush, but you kept going.

Azriel swore, hand tightening briefly in your hair before smoothing it down, like he was torn between urging you on or just losing himself in it. His eyes were dark, almost dazed, mouth slack, and every muscle in his body was drawn tight like he was barely holding on.

You were about to do it again—just a little deeper, just a little sloppier—when he suddenly grunted and tugged at your shoulders, not rough, but firm.

“Okay—okay,” he said, breath ragged, jaw working as he blinked down at you. “That’s... you need to stop. Now.”

You blinked, lips swollen, mouth still wet, the taste of him warm on your tongue. The fear crept in, sudden and sharp. “Why?” you asked, voice quieter than you meant, uncertain.

His laugh was short and sharp, like he couldn’t believe you had the audacity to ask. “Because if you don’t, I’m gonna embarrass myself.”

You smiled, slow and wicked. “So you can do the whole ‘humble rockstar' thing.”

He gave a breathless laugh, then cupped your jaw in one hand and tilted your face up toward him. “Get off the floor, sweetheart. That mouth should come with a warning.”

You rose, still smug, and he kissed you before you were fully upright—fast, needy, like he couldn’t help it.

Like he needed more.

The kiss turned rough fast—his mouth hard on yours, all tongue and teeth and the kind of heat that made your knees threaten to give. You barely had time to register that he was moving again before he pressed you chest-first to the wall. The cool surface kissed your flushed skin through your top, shocking a little breath from your lips.

Azriel’s front was flush to your back, his breath ragged at your ear, hands already moving with greedy intent. One gripped your hip, steadying you; the other snaked around you and skimmed up the inside of your thigh, dragging the hem of your skirt higher and higher.

And then he paused. You felt it—the stutter in his breath, the twitch of his fingers.

“No fucking way,” he murmured, grinning into the shell of your ear. “You wore this tiny thing and didn’t even bother with shorts?”

You didn’t answer. Your smirk spoke for itself, even if he couldn’t see it.

Azriel groaned—like the sound had been ripped from his chest—and shoved your skirt up around your waist, rough with want. His hand cupped you through your underwear, palm broad and warm and already pressing just right.

You gasped, back arching slightly, and he groaned again, low and hungry.

“That’s evil,” he said, dragging two fingers over the thin fabric. “Fucking evil.”

You whimpered as he circled your clit through your panties, slow and deliberate. His body caged yours, every inch of him crowding you against the wall, hips pressing firm into your ass, his cock thick and hard against you through the fabric. 

And then—swift and smooth—he hooked two fingers in the side of your underwear and pulled them aside.

“Fuck,” he muttered into your neck, fingers sliding through slick like he owns it. “You this wet the whole time?”

You nodded, barely able to breathe, your forehead pressing against the wall, hips twitching back into him.

His fingers moved again, lazy and unhurried, fingers skilled from years of strings and rhythm, stroking like he wanted to memorize every reaction. “You were singing my lyrics like that,” he whispered, “with this pretty little cunt already begging for me?”

A tiny, broken sound escaped you.

He laughed—rough and low, his free hand splaying over your stomach, holding you steady. “Should’ve pulled you up on stage right then,” he said, dragging his fingers higher, circling, teasing. “Let the whole crowd see how much you wanted it.”

Azriel didn’t wait for you to respond. His fingers slid back down, stroking through the mess he’d already made of you, gathering it up like he owned every drop. And then he pressed one inside—slow, thick, knuckle-deep in a heartbeat.

You gasped, eyes fluttering closed as your forehead met the wall with a dull thud.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, voice all gravel and sin, “you’re so tight.”

You barely had time to whimper before he added a second, pushing in with more pressure, no resistance. His palm pressed flat against you now, keeping your underwear pulled taut to the side, while his fingers curled just so—finding that spot that made your thighs tremble.

“That it?” he asked, like he already knew the answer. “Right there?”

Your nod was jerky, breath ragged, hands splayed uselessly against the wall. You turned your head, blindly searching for him, and his mouth was there—hot, open, devouring yours like he couldn’t stand not to be kissing you. Your lips parted, tongues brushing—messy and desperate. He was all heat behind you, chest rising fast as his hips rolled forward, like he couldn’t help grinding against your ass, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.

But your gaze dropped, and your head trailed after it, tracing the lines of ink winding down his forearm—down, down—until they vanished beneath your skirt, where his fingers were still working you open. 

He set a rhythm—slow but deep, purposeful, fingers curling again and again, dragging against that spot like he was trying to ruin you. Your underwear still stretched taut to the side, the fabric bit into the crease of your thigh, an added pressure you could feel with every shift of his hand.

“You’re fuckin’ clenching,” he groaned. “God damn.”

One hand still braced at your stomach, Azriel dipped his head to your neck, teeth grazing skin that was already damp with sweat. 

You blinked, your eyes a little hazy, before you spoke up. “Didn’t that one used to be unfinished?” you asked, voice low. “The wing—on your tricep.”

He slowed, just barely, the rhythm stuttering. “You’ve seen it before.”

You nodded. “The Tiny Desk session. And that festival set—when your shirt came off halfway through.”

A low, incredulous laugh ghosted over your throat. “You really pay attention, huh? Kinda sexy.”

You tried to stifle a laugh. “I mean, it’s hard not to. You’re kind of… hard to miss.”

“Mm,” he hummed, his fingers picking up pace as he pressed deeper. “What else have you seen, sweetheart?”

You blinked, mouth parting—his fingers kept moving, stealing the words before you could speak. “I—I’ve seen a lot of your shows. Recordings, I mean.” You laughed softly, trying to push through the aching heat building in you. “I know you guys’ setlists by heart.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmured against your neck, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Go on then—what was the opener for the Late Hours tour?”

“‘Out of Body,’” you breathed, hips twitching against his hand. “Except for that show in Brisbane where it was—fuck—‘Violet Hour.’”

His fingers slowed just enough to make you whine, but it was deliberate—he was listening now. “Jesus. You’re a little encyclopedia, huh?”

You gave a shaky laugh. “Kinda my thing.”

“Mhm,” he said, curling his fingers just right. “So when’s my birthday?”

You blinked, struggling to think. “March… twenty-second?”

He gave a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “What the fuck.”

“And you told GQ you don’t like cake,” you gasped. “Said your mom used to burn—oh god—burn the edges.”

That made him laugh, teeth grazing your jaw. “Fuckin’ hell. You know shit about me you shouldn’t.”

“You’re the one who keeps putting it out there,” you panted.

His fingers didn’t stop, dragging more ragged sounds from your throat. “Feels unfair, though. You’ve got all this shit on me, and I don’t even know what you do.”

You made a noise that was half-moan, half-laugh. “Like… in general?”

“Yes, in general,” he drawled, clearly enjoying himself. “Do you work? Study? Or just professionally stalk musicians?”

“Depends who’s asking,” you managed, voice catching as his thumb traced slow, maddening circles, so precise you knew you’d never manage it again without him.

“I’m asking,” he murmured, picking up the pace again. “C’mon. You told me my fuckin’ birthdate. Least you can do is tell me yours.”

Your mouth opened—nothing came out at first. The next slow thrust of his fingers had you gasping, voice faltering before the answer finally slipped past your lips.

He hummed, satisfied. “See? Was that so hard?”

“You’re making it hard.”

“That’s kinda the point.” The cockiness in his voice alone could have pushed you over—but then came that quiet chuckle, right against your ear, low and smug and fucking lethal.

But just as the wave crested, as your body tensed and your breath caught, he stopped.

Pulled his fingers out, dragged them slow down the inside of your thigh like he knew what he was doing, like he meant to leave you there—trembling, soaked, and aching.

You whimpered in protest, hips shifting back, desperate for any kind of contact, but he just chuckled, breath still hot against your ear.

Then—his hands were on your waist, spinning you. Your back hit the wall with a soft thump, and Azriel was already there, crowding into your space, his fingers dragging up your bare thighs before settling on your hips.

He looked wrecked—hair a mess, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And he was watching you like he was deciding whether to devour you slowly or ruin you in one go.

He bent, hands curling around your ankles, lifting one foot at a time to unbuckle your heels and slide them off, setting them aside with surprising care. Then his hands were under your skirt, pushing it up, up, until he had it bunched around your waist. A quick, rough tug at the waistband and your underwear was gone—torn clean off, like it was never meant to survive this.

Your top came next. He peeled it up over your head, fingers skimming your skin, and your bra was unclasped and discarded with barely a breath between.

Then his hands were back on your body—hot and greedy, like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.

You reached between your bodies, brushing over the exposed length of him—still hard and glistening. He hissed between his teeth. “Not helping,” he growled.

You smiled up at him. “Then hurry up.”

Azriel shoved his shoes off, then kicked his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, stepping out of them completely. He turned, muttering something under his breath as he dug between the couch cushions. A second later, her came up with his wallet, flipping it open with practiced ease. 

You watched, dazed, as he pulled out a condom. Wallet condom. Of course. 

At least if this somehow knocked you up, your baby daddy was hot and rich. The kid would be set. 

Before you could fully imagine a life and kids with him (as if you hadn’t before), he was on you again—all of him. Bare chest pressed to yours, the heat of him bleeding into your skin. He didn’t wait. One hand slid behind your knee, hitching your leg up and over his forearm, opening you to him as he stepped in close—so close. His other hand braced the wall beside your head, steadying both of you.

“Loud,” he murmured, lining up. “Bet you’ll be loud for me.”

Your mind went static. Any reply you would have come up with died in your throat as he pushed in, thick and slow, dragging a shattered moan from your lips as he filled you inch by inch. The stretch burned in the best way, a pressure that made your spine arch, your fingers scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his arms, anything.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t decide what to focus on—your parted lips, your fluttering lashes, the way your body clenched around him. “You feel—shit—perfect.”

You could barely answer, your mind dissolving as he drew back and thrust in again, the rhythm sharp. The wall thudded softly behind you with every motion. One foot barely held steady on the ground, the other still hooked tight in his grip like he dared you to move.

He leaned in close, lips grazing your jaw as he murmured, “Look at you. Taking it so fucking well.”

Your head tipped back, the words like gasoline, and he took the opportunity—mouth on your throat, teeth grazing skin, hips snapping forward again, harder this time. The slick drag of him, the sound of skin meeting skin, the low growl in his chest—it all worked in tandem, pushing you further, higher.

“Bet you’ve touched yourself to my music before,” he whispered, pumping deeper, rougher now.

You let out a sound—half protest, half moan—and he grinned against your throat, wicked.

“What was it?” he pressed. “One of the slow ones? Something filthy?”

His hand slid up to your chest, fingers teasing over your nipple in lazy circles before giving a firmer roll, then settling there to hold you steady. “Which one, baby?” he murmured. “Which song made you spread your legs and think about my cock?”

“‘Glass Chapel,’” you gasped, a broken sound, and he groaned—a guttural, desperate sound like you’d cracked something open in him.

“No fucking wonder you were only singing my parts out there.” His eyes dragged over your face, catching the way your cheeks flushed, lips parting like you’d been caught. His smirk deepened. “Yeah. I noticed. Was it the bridge? Yeah? Yeah, baby, knew that bridge would ruin you.”

“It did,” you breathed, your fingers digging into the muscle of his arm as he angled his hips to hit exactly where you needed. “I came so hard I—” He sped up—the wet, obscene sound of his efforts echoing in the dressing room, shameless and slick. “God, I had to pause it.”

Azriel snapped. One arm locked tight around your waist, the other already hooked under your thigh as he lifted you—effortless, like you weighed nothing. He pressed you into the wall, firm but careful, his body pinning you there. Your legs locked tight around his waist, arms flying up around his neck. You buried your fingers in his hair as he thrust into you hard enough to make your breath stutter, raking your nails down his scalp when the angle hit just right. He groaned against your chest, then dipped his head to suck your nipple into his mouth, tongue hot and insistent.

“Song’s old,” he growled, voice muffled against your skin. “Let me give you something new to touch yourself to.”

You whimpered something that wasn’t a word, hips tilting to meet every thrust like your body was chasing him on instinct. The stretch of him was dizzying, unbearable in the way only perfect things could be, and when his teeth grazed your nipple, a shock of pleasure bolted down your spine.

“Feel that?” he muttered against your skin. “Every time you play that song now, you’re gonna feel this.”

He slammed into you again—deep and brutal, but never careless—and your moans turned strangled. Your head tipped back against the wall, nails dragging harder through his hair until he hissed.

His breathing was ragged as he pulled back just enough to speak, eyes dark and intense. “When I saw you out there… The way the lights hit you, how you looked at me—like you were waiting for me to see you.” His voice dropped lower. “I wondered what you’d sound like if I ever got you alone. If your voice would shake when you said my name.”

Your body seized around him at that, the raw confession cutting through the fog in your mind like lightning.

“Oh, you like that,” he growled, almost laughing as your hips rolled down against him, helpless. “Knew you were filthy, baby. Knew it when you looked me up and down the second you got backstage. When you told me you got yourself off to goddamn ‘Glass Chapel,’ Jesus Christ.”

You huffed a breath, teeth sinking into your lip. “It was the Hail Marys that did me in.”

He stilled suddenly, eyes flashing, like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right. Then he breathed out a low, stunned laugh—more breath than sound. “You’re kidding.”

You didn’t say a word, just shook your head—lips parted and red, hair a wreck, sweat catching the dim light on your skin. You were sure you looked completely fucked out, and God help you, you loved what it did to him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, jaw tight as he thrust into you again, slower this time. “That shit’s not even subtle.”

A bitter smile curved his mouth. “Didn’t think you’d be into the whole martyr complex. You got a confessional kink, too? Or is it just the guilt that gets you off?”

You tried to glare at him, but it collapsed into a moan as he found that merciless rhythm again, your head falling back against the wall. “You’re cocky as hell,” you managed, breathless, “but I thought about this every night and still didn’t think you’d be this good.”

Azriel let out a rough laugh, hips slamming into you like your praise lit something in him. “Yeah?” he panted, mouth dragging over your throat. “Say that again.”

You dug your nails into his shoulders, lips brushing his ear. “You’re better than I imagined, Azriel.”

He groaned, low and rough, and buried his face in your neck like he needed a second to pull himself together. “Fuck, baby.” His voice was ragged. “Keep talking like that and I’m not gonna last.”

A smug smile curled on your lips, despite how wrecked you felt. “What, you want me to lie instead?”

Azriel laughed, breath hot against your skin. “No, keep talking.” His hands tightened around your thighs as he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide. “Tell me what you want, (y/n).”

When his hips slammed into you again, deeper than before, the words spilled from your lips without a second thought. “I want you to fuck me like you can’t get enough. Make me scream so hard I forget where I am, who I am—I don’t care, I just want to feel you all over me, Azriel, until I can’t walk, can’t think, just you. Fucking me. Over and over.”

The sound of your pleasure bounced off the walls, loud and unrestrained, but you didn’t care. Nothing mattered except the way he made you feel. You couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop him as he drove you toward something reckless and burning.

Azriel’s breath came in short, ragged bursts, and his eyes darkened with a wicked, almost feral gleam. “Fuck, (y/n),” he growled, voice rough and shaking. “Fuckin’ perfect goddamn pussy. Made for me to fuck it, huh? Yeah, baby, and that filthy fuckin’ mouth—I could fuck you like this forever, you know that?”

You whimpered, one hand sliding between your bodies, fingers working your clit in tight, desperate circles. “So close,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Don’t stop, Azriel—fuck, don’t stop.”

His hips stuttered at the sight, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Shit—look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on where your bodies met. “Rubbing yourself while I fuck you. You feel too fuckin’ good to be real.”

His voice broke on the last word. And then he lost it—thrusts erratic, bruising, as a groan tore from his throat and he came hard, spilling into the condom with a raw, guttural sound like it was dragged from the pit of him.

But he didn’t stop. 

He kept moving, fucking through it, pace rough and messy with the aftershocks, and the overstimulation only pushed him harder. The rhythmic slap of his skin against yours grew louder, the pressure building in your core, until you were coming with a cry, back arching as heat tore through you like wildfire. 

Your whole body shook. Your legs trembled. And finally, finally, he slowed. 

Azriel leaned into you for a second, breath ragged against your skin, before finally easing out with a low, involuntary hiss, your bodies slick and trembling where they met. 

Without a word, he adjusted his grip on you, one arm locked beneath your thighs, the other bracing your ass as he carried you from the wall like he hadn’t just demolished you. Like you weren’t still gasping in his arms.

“Hold on,” he muttered, voice rough, and you instinctively clung tighter, arms looped around his neck. He shifted one hand, reaching for the blanket slung over the back of the couch, and shook it out with an easy flick before laying it across the cushions.

Then he knelt, lowering you onto it with a care that shouldn’t have felt so reverent after what he’d just done.

While you melted into the soft spread—mind blank, body humming—Azriel rose and padded over to a trash bin tucked near the corner. He peeled the condom off with one hand as he walked, tied it off, and tossed it without pause.

You couldn’t take your eyes off of him. 

There was something unshakably magnetic about the way he moved—casual and unhurried, like he wasn’t Azriel, the bassist every dive bar daydreamed about and the reason half the crowd screamed louder during the breakdowns, but just some guy cleaning up after the best sex of your life. His shoulders rolled as he walked, loose and satisfied, and there was a certain quiet confidence in the slope of his spine, like he didn’t need to say a word to know you were still reeling. 

He made his way to the mirrored dressing table—small, utilitarian, built into the wall—and grabbed a towel and a battered pack of American Spirits off the cluttered surface. Your eyes trailed after him, helpless not to admire the ripple of lean muscle across his back, the taper of his waist, the tight curve of his ass. Even his legs—long, strong, littered with faint bruises and a thin, silvery scar running vertical over one knee—had you clenching around nothing. Azriel looked like he was carved for sin and didn’t even know it. Or worse—did know, and just didn’t care. 

The cardboard crinkled in his palm as he tapped one loose and caught it between his lips, already moving back toward you. With the lighter tucked inside the carton, he slid it free one-handed, thumb dragging the wheel with practiced ease.

Back on the couch, he dropped down beside you, one arm thrown over the backrest to hook around your shoulders. The flame lit with a soft chk as he sparked the cigarette to life, the glow briefly catching on the sharp cut of his jaw, the relaxed slant of his mouth.

Then, without so much as a look, he held the towel out to you, a fluffy rolled up green thing—just a quiet offer, casual and thoughtless, like it was muscle memory. You took it with a still-shaky hand and an even shakier thank you. 

Azriel leaned his head back and took a long drag, exhaling like he didn’t have a care in the fucking world.

And you? You stared.

You couldn’t believe it. You couldn’t fucking believe it.

Azriel—the Azriel—was sitting beside you like you hadn’t just been pressed against a wall, stuffed full and screaming his name like a prayer. Like he hadn’t just wrung you out with his hands on your thighs and your voice in his ear. He was right there, cigarette in hand, the taste of him still on your tongue.

A shaky breath left you.

You needed a cigarette—

So you reached out and plucked his from between his lips, slow and deliberate, your index and middle fingers brushing the corner of his mouth.

He turned to look at you, one brow arched in lazy disbelief, but there was unmistakable amusement in his eyes.

You didn’t say a word. Just brought it to your mouth and took a long, deep drag—slow enough to make a point, greedy enough that you knew he’d taste it when he got it back. Smoke curled from your nose, then your mouth, a slow exhale through parted lips.

Only once the breath had fully left you did you glance at him—then carefully, precisely, placed the cig back where it belonged, tucking it against his mouth like you were returning something borrowed.

Azriel let you do it, didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just took another drag like nothing about this was abnormal.

You busied yourself with the towel—more for something to do than out of any real modesty, dabbing between your thighs like it might distract from the buzz still lingering in your limbs.

What were you supposed to do now?

Just get dressed and leave? That felt weird.

Say thank you? Even weirder.

Make conversation? Try to pretend like this wasn’t the craziest thing that had ever happened to you?

You avoided looking at him, trying not to think too hard, trying not to come across like you were thinking too hard. But your thoughts were looping, loud and nervous, until—

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his expression shift. A sharp inhale, eyes widening mid-drag, followed by a low, almost startled curse.

Then:

“You wouldn’t mind signing an NDA, would you?”

You blinked, turning to look at him. “Isn’t that supposed to be before?”

Azriel exhaled smoke through a crooked grin, one brow raised, all lazy charm and unapologetic sin. “I forgot,” he said, voice rough with amusement.

He tilted his head toward you, like he could already see you agreeing, like he knew exactly what you’d say next.

I sighed as I shoved open the door to the townhouse, my whole body heavy. I'd walked miles across Velaris today, running basic errands, meeting with people who needed to talk to me as High Lady, crossing off administrative tasks I had not wanted to deal with, and checking in on a handful of people and projects. My planned day had started out with much less to do, but things just kept coming up in the past few days, until I didn't have a choice but to do one thing after another from sun up to sun down today.

My muscles ached and my head felt dulled and tired. All I wanted to do was flop into my bed and shut down for the rest of the night. I strode though the front door of the Velaris townhouse, intending to do just that. No one else was supposed to be here tonight, which meant I'd have the place to myself to go down like a sack of bricks.

I glanced into the living room on my way to the stairs, only to stop dead at the sight of a very familiar figure already laying on the couch, one arm across his eyes.

"Rhys?"

My mate groaned, and despite my exhaustion, a happy little laugh bubbled out of me as I moved around the couch to give him a hug.

"I thought you weren't going to be home from the Court of Nightmares until tomorrow?"

Rhys sighed, holding me to him a moment longer and leaving one hand tangled in my hair, even as we pulled back enough to speak.

"For the first time in hundreds of years, I managed to finish business with Keir earlier than expected. I knew you were busy in the city today, so I was hoping to surprise you here when you got home. I... may have caved in to my own tiredness while I waited."

I just smiled and put a hand to my mouth, trying and failing to hide my grin.

"Well, it's honestly an amazing surprise. Although I'm so tired I almost walked straight past you to go collapse in bed."

Rhys gave me a tired smile, shifting on the couch so he could put his arms around me. I leaned back against his chest and the two of us sank down into the cushions together. Instantly, the last few lingering stressors of the day melted from my mind as I sunk into the comfort of the person I loved, my best friend in the world.

"I think we've just made a critical mistake," I said after a moment. I had to fight to keep my eyes open, comfortable and content as I was against Rhys's chest, and the only response he could muster was a soft hum against the shell of my ear. "...I don't think I could get up from this position if my life depended on it."

Rhys huffed another laugh, shifting and tightening his arms around me but making no moves to get up.

"Well, then we may just have to give in to our fate and sleep here, just like this."

I smiled, turning on my side to curl into Rhys. I could hear his heart beating as I laid my head on his chest, and my own heartrate slowed in response. The streets of Velaris were nice and quiet outside, and so was the house around us. Slipping into a peaceful sleep with him here would be the easiest thing in the world.

"...I just feel like we're going to regret the decision in the morning, when we wake up as sore as if we'd been training with Cass and Az. Or worse, when one of us kicks the other off the couch in our sleep in the middle of the night."

Rhys let out the heaviest, most drawn-out sigh I'd ever heard in my life. He practically went liquid beneath me, apparently trying to merge his form with the couch completely. But then, on the inhale, he suddenly stood, scooping me up into his arms in the process.

We just stood there for a moment in the living room, Rhys holding me as I looked at him in surprise.

"I can't believe you actually managed to leave our couch. That's my High Lord, right there. Ultimate resolve and power."

Rhys snorted and rolled his eyes, but I caught him smiling all the same.

"If it had just been me, I couldn't have done it. But to make sure my High Lady doesn't wake in the morning with a neck that feels broken from her chosen sleeping position? I found the strength."

I laughed again as Rhys squeezed me tighter, then started heading for the stairs. I'd been a zombie when I'd first walked through the door of the townhouse, but just being around Rhys was enough to bring me back from the brink. I still needed to sleep, now, but the utter exhaustion mind, body, and soul and the buzzing in my brain had been alleviated.

We tumbled into bed together, both of us taking a moment to ditch the street clothes before wiggling under the blankets in a way incredibly undignified for the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. Of course, neither of us particularly cared.

I curled up against Rhys's chest again, laying my head over his heart so I could hear its soft, steady beat as I drifted off to sleep. His arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me tight into his side, and he placed a gentle, sleepy kiss on my forehead once we'd settled in. We'd never even bothered to turn on the lights.

"I'm glad I made it home to you tonight," he mumbled, clearly already halfway to sleep. "I don't think I could've gone another night in the Court of Nightmares without seeing you."

"I'm glad you made it home tonight, too," I said, my voice just as weak and sleep-affected. "It was a long day. But it's easy to forget about it all with you."

I felt Rhys smile against my forehead, and he gave me one last little squeeze before his body relaxed. I could tell from his breathing he'd fallen almost immediately into a deep sleep, and I wasn't far behind him. I was home safe, in the loving arms of my mate, snuggled up together in our bed. There was nothing else in the world that mattered to me more than what I had here.

****************

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