#solwrites

You’re dipping a quill in ink when you feel it brush against your toes; a cool caress climbing the length of your leg in a barely there touch that sent goosebumps across your skin. “Why are you still awake?”

Azriel’s still in his leathers, the top few laces of his shirt is completely loose and you’re quick to pick up on the clench of his jaw—the flexing of his hands at his sides that were still wrapped in thick bandages to protect his knuckles from the hours spent before the punching bags. “I was helping Rhys with some paperwork while he’s out.” The crackle of the fire fills the silence for a few beats of time before you turn to give him your full attention. “Is something wrong?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” Your head tilts to the side, a crinkle of your brow and Azriel seems—restless. Agitated. He makes a bee-line for the bar cart pushed by the corner of the room next to the window. It’s cracked open, a cool breeze sifting through the thin fabric of your clothes. “About me.”

You lean forward in the seat, elbows resting on your knees as you watch him fill a glass halfway and knock it back in two gulps. “I don’t think I understand.”

“Is something wrong with me?”

It makes your spine straighten, a clipped laugh pulling free but it fades off when you realize he’s being serious. Standing there, perched against the window with the glass freshly filled and there’s a look in rich eyes; something tortured and devastating that’s hard to definitively place. “Of course not. Why would you even ask me that?” Full lips part to answer but Az shakes it off with a scoff, nose obscured by the rim of his glass but the tension in broad shoulders is unmistakable. “Have I done something to make you feel that way?”

One full minute passes before he speaks again, voice much lower—much less confident and it makes your chest ache to hear him so soft spoken. “Cassian told me about what happened the other night. With you, him and Rhys.”

“Oh.” You shift in place, hands nervously toying with the ends of your hair, nails picking at chipped polish and dry cuticles. You pray the firelight masks the red tint that smatters across the apples of your cheeks. “And that upset you?”

He scoffs, finishing the glass and setting it down so firmly it chips. You don’t dare mention it, taking note of the restraint he was already exhibiting by creating so much distance, doing his best to keep his hands occupied before he scaled the length of the room and ripped that oversized shirt clean off your frame. “It didn’t upset me,” Azriel runs a hand through messy locks, sneering at the bandage that catches in the strands and rips it off so forcefully it breaks in two. “I have no formal claim over you—not like Rhys, but I had assumed that if something like that were to ever happen that…” Az’s shoulders slump, a vulnerability washing over his gaze that had you moving to stand. “I thought that you would’ve asked me to be there too.”

The concern melts away and a slow smile begins to form at the corner of kissable lips, voice as soft as the first few strings on a freshly tuned violin. “Az,” The way you say it forces him to look away in shame; embarrassment burning beneath his skin when his words replay in his mind and if it weren’t for your hand cupping his cheek, he probably would’ve winnowed away. “Are you jealous?”

“I don’t have a right to be.”

Maybe it’s because of how irked he truly looked, hands fidgeting and strong facial features scrunched up that prompted your touch to glide from his cheeks down to the strong planes of his chest. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your palm and the cool touch of his shadows dancing through the strands of your unbound hair. “Don’t you though?” Lower and lower your hand goes, familiar ridges of hard muscle taunts you beneath intricately made fighting gear and something about the shiny daggers tucked at his hips has your thighs clenching. “I’ve spent just as much time with you as I have the others. I know your body like the back of my hand but I never wanted to assume—I wanted you to come to me when you were ready.”

He wastes not a second more, a groan rumbling through his whole being when he closes the distance and presses his mouth against yours like a man starved. It’s messy, sloppy as teeth clash and tongues touch but you can’t bring yourself to care about bruised lips and being perfect when Az was holding you so close—like he was scared you’d change your mind and run off. “Was ready the first time you touched me.”

Azriel bends at the knee, hands curling behind your thighs to carry you in his arms. It doesn’t last long, just enough for long legs to bring you to Rhysand’s desk. The mountain of papers are swiped from the table without second thought, ink pot seeping into the wool rug as ravenous hands eat at any and all exposed flesh he can get to. “You never said anything.”

“I wasn’t worthy of you then,” Something in his tone changes, something darker and more primal that sends a shiver down your spine. “I’m not worthy of you now but I’m too selfish to care now that I’ve got you all to myself.”

His touch is branding, the grip on your hips keeping you firmly pressed against him and the whimper that you let out is eagerly swallowed by his mouth. Azriel’s not gentle by any means, desperate kisses down the length of your neck and the mark he sucks into the juncture of your shoulder has liquid hot need pooling in your panties.

It’s positively whorish.

Slutting yourself out to the High Lord and his brothers but you can’t bring yourself to care; too busy tugging off your—Rhysand’s shirt to make room for the mouth making a claiming path towards your breasts. “Az,” You gasp out when lips wrap around a peaked nipple, back arching into his touch when teeth bite down with the most perfect pressure it makes your cunt clench around nothing. “Please. I need more.”

“Wait.” A simple command that can’t be simply fulfilled and you begin to think he enjoys the way you squirm beneath him. “Do for me what I did for you,” A cruel smile quirks at the corners of his mouth and you nearly want to scold your body for betraying you, legs parting at the sight of him so unhinged—so hungry. Azriel settles between your thighs like he was made to be there, shadows curling around your knees to keep you spread and self-consciousness has no place to rear her ugly head when he’s staring at you like the Mother had presented him his wildest dreams on a shiny silver platter.

“I can’t,” You can feel his fingers touching, pulling soaking undergarments to the side, collecting the drip of your slick and sliding it back up. A thumb ghosts over the bump of your clit and Azriel can’t fight the groan at how your hips chase the retreating finger for more. “Please, I need you.”

“Evidently, not bad enough,” You thought Rhysand was insufferable with his teasing. Cool wisps of murky darkness lick at the strong line of his neck, blending into the deep umber of his hair and golden eyes seem to glow ten shades brighten against such a contrast. “Keep telling me though, I like hearing you say it.”

How are you not to comply?

When his head lowers and presses a kiss to your bare cunt; the only kind act you’d receive before he begins his feast. There’s no running away, no squeezing your legs for reprieve when his tongue drags and sucks and fucks into you with such skill.

Azriel doesn’t mean to but he can’t help but work harder than normal, feeling some need to prove himself—each moan and whine, breathy whimpers and teeth biting so harshly into the plush of your bottom lip he worried you’d break skin and draw blood. So be it. Whatever it took to prove he wasn’t last choice; to prove that he was deserving of being nestled between your legs, slurping at your sex like he’d found the fountain of youth and vitality. One finger slips easily into your sopping hole, a second added shortly after and Azriel’s pleased hums send shocks up the length of your spine. “So good, Az.” It’s breathless, choppy, chest heaving and cheeks flushed with your hands palming at your breasts and fingers pulling on your nipples while he works you through the pleasure. “Feels so good—please fuck me. Please, need you inside me.”

His mouth glistens with you when he raises his head, chin dripping and fingers unwavering in their steady pace. In and out, in and out, in and out. Golden eyes darken as if scalded in fire and covered in soot. “Wait.”

Cruel. So devastatingly cruel and yet when fingers curl inside, rubbing deliciously against spongy inner walls you’re thanking him. Babbled praises and garbled pleas for more as you writhe beneath him but he doesn’t stop; seemingly entranced by a spell unable to be broken by sweet words and soft touches. “I’m sorry, Az. I was wrong—please. Please, just touch me.”

The hard line of his brow finally loosens but only an idiot would think he’d let you off easy. Handsome smiles and husky words nearly distract you from the stealthy way he rids himself of his pants, boxers swiftly following. A sinful moan at the sight of him fully hard and weeping at the tip. “You’re sorry?” Azriel’s fucking hung, long and girthy and so utterly beautiful it makes your mouth water when he holds it tight at the base and settles it between your folds—taunting, teasing with the weight of it but never fully giving. A free hand glides up your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, ghosting over your neck before sinking into your hair. “Tell me how sorry. Make me believe it while I fuck you stupid.”

He demands the impossible.

Words escape you when he finally fits the tip inside, feeding you inch after inch of perfect cock that you can do nothing but grip him tighter and whine. The first few thrusts robs you of thought, brain eddying to mush as he gives you time to adjust. “Azriel,” His back flexes at the sound of his name on your lips, eyes hazy and hair messy as he forces you to watch where you start and he ends. “It’s so fucking deep.”

“Yeah?” A kiss is pressed to your forehead. “Feel good?”

“So good. So, so good.”

“That’s sweet, baby.” The pillow comfort in the gentle tone dries up when his cock slowly drags out until there’s barely anything breaching your entrance. “But, that doesn’t really sound like apologies,” Azriel shoves it all back inside with one sharp thrust and the pace he starts is unforgiving. Hard wood digs into the base of your spine and your nails leave marks in the mahogany when searching for something—anything to brace yourself.

You can’t fulfill the request; eyes rolling back as the air is knocked from your lungs with each snap of his hips. Az refuses to stop despite your insubordination, a broken moan shoving its way past his pretty lips when you can’t stop clenching around his cock. “I’m—“

“Just wait for me—so close. Just a little longer.”

It takes effort to pry your eyes open, gazing up at him with glassy eyes and you’re tugging him closer to feel his mouth on yours. There’s no staving off the tight coil in your belly any longer, your release sounding with a pathetic shout and you can feel him filling you up, his hips faltering with sensitivity. “I really am sorry.”

The bell above the restaurant door chimed the same way it always did—soft, forgettable, the kind of sound that melted into the background of clinking dishes and low conversations. It was a small place, tucked right at the edge where the city started to thin into quieter streets, the kind of place people either stumbled upon once or kept returning to without quite knowing why.

You had long since memorized the regulars. The man who always asked for extra sugar but never used it. The couple who sat by the window every Thursday, speaking in hushed tones like they were afraid of being overheard. The college kids who stayed too long and tipped too little.

And then there was her.

She didn’t look like a regular at first—not with the way she kept her hood low, coat wrapped tight even when the weather didn’t call for it. You hadn’t recognized her face the first time she came in. What you noticed instead was the way she carried herself, quiet but deliberate, like she knew exactly where she belonged even in a place like this.

Then came the tips.

You had stared at it for a solid ten seconds after clearing her table the first night. Enough money to cover half a week’s expenses, left beneath a neatly folded napkin like it was nothing. You’d thought it was a mistake. It wasn’t.

She came back the next day. Same seat. Same quiet presence. Same absurd tip.

It didn’t take long before your coworkers caught on.

“Oh hey,” one of them nudged you as the door chimed again, voice already laced with amusement, “your mysterious sugar mama’s back.”

You didn’t even have to look to know it was her. There was something about the way the air shifted when she entered. It was subtle but unmistakable.

“I tried to take her table,” your coworker continued, leaning against the counter with a grin, “but she only wants you. Also—” they lowered their voice, though not nearly enough to be discreet, “—she asked if you were dating anybody.”

You snorted, grabbing your notepad more out of habit than necessity. “Hah, yeah right.”

“Hey, I’m serious. Someone’s in love.”

“Or someone just has weird preferences,” you shot back, though your grip on the pen tightened just a little. You didn’t wait for a response, already making your way over.

She was seated in her usual spot, hood still up, fingers loosely curled around a menu she probably didn’t need. Up close, you could see the faint curve of her lips, like she’d been expecting you specifically.

“Well,” you started, keeping your tone light as you approached, “this is getting to be a habit. Pie and a coffee? The usual?”

She tilted her head slightly, considering you more than the menu. “Hm… what haven’t I tried?”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second before flipping through the mental list. “Uh, well—we’ve got a seasonal strawberry glaze that just got added. It’s new.”

Her gaze lingered on you, thoughtful, like she was weighing something far more important than dessert. “Sure,” she said finally, voice soft but certain. “Why not?”

You scribbled it down, nodding. “Great. Anything else?”

There was a pause—just long enough to feel intentional.

“How about dinner?”

You didn’t even look up from your notepad at first. “We don’t start serving till 5pm.”

“With you.”

The words landed differently. Heavier. You froze mid-motion, pen hovering uselessly above paper before you slowly lifted your gaze to meet hers.

“Oh,” you exhaled, the sound coming out more uncertain than you intended. “Uh… I’m kind of…” You faltered, the practiced deflections you usually relied on suddenly slipping out of reach. “My last relationship ended kind of messy, so I’m not really in the market for…”

She didn’t interrupt. She just watched you, patient, like she already knew how this would go.

“Well,” she said after a moment, a faint smile touching her lips, “you can say no now…” Her voice dipped slightly, softer, more deliberate. “But I won’t stop asking, pretty. I’m quite persuasive.”

Your stomach twisted in a way you didn’t appreciate, heat creeping up your neck as you opened your mouth—only to close it again when she moved.

Her hand extended toward you, smooth, unhurried. Another folded stack of bills rested between her fingers, pressed into your palm before you could react. It was heavier than the last ones.

You stared at it, then back at her. “You—”

But she was already standing, brushing past you with a presence that lingered even after she stepped away. You turned, watching her make her way toward the door like she hadn’t just tilted your entire sense of normal.

“You don’t want your pie?” you called after her, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

She paused just long enough to glance back over her shoulder, the faintest hint of amusement in her eyes.

Robin noticed it after rehearsals.

You’re sitting beside her in the dressing room, shoulders slumped forward while absentmindedly trying to smooth down the feathers around your waist. The soft halovian plumage there is slightly ruffled, just uncared for in the way feathers get when someone’s too busy, too tired, or simply not used to maintaining them properly.

Robin watches quietly for a moment.

Then she gently catches your wrist.

“You’ll damage them if you keep tugging like that,” she murmurs.

You immediately flush in embarrassment. “I’m trying, okay? They’re just annoying. They get dirty so fast…”

Robin’s expression softens almost painfully.

Because she understands.

Halovian wings weren’t just decoration. They were sensitive, delicate, personal. Caring for another halovian’s wings was something intimate in the quietest way possible. An act of trust.

And you looked so frustrated with yourself.

So Robin smiles warmly and pats the space beside her.

“Come here,” she says. “I’ll help.”

At first, you’re stiff with embarrassment while she works. Robin sits behind you carefully, handling your wings with such unbelievable gentleness that it almost makes your chest ache.

Her fingers separate the feathers one by one.

Checking for bent plumes.

Smoothing tangled layers.

Cleaning away dust gathered near your waist where clothing rubbed against them constantly.

“These ones need the most care,” Robin hums softly. “You really have been neglecting them…”

“I know…” you mumble into your hands.

“But that’s alright.” Her voice turns impossibly tender. “You have me now.”

It becomes routine after that.

Some evenings, Robin simply appears beside you carrying a brush and oil with a knowing smile.

Other times she’ll tug you into her lap before you can protest, humming softly while preening your feathers with patient affection.

She especially loves your waist wings.

Claims they’re “the prettiest shape.”

You insist she only says that because they’re the easiest for her to reach.

But secretly…

you start taking pride in them because of the way Robin handles them.

Like they’re precious.

Like you’re precious.

The wings behind your ears, though…

Those are different, far more sensitive.

The first time Robin touches them, you nearly jolt out of your skin.

Her fingertips barely graze the downy feathers hidden behind your ear before you let out a startled noise, shoulders instantly rising.

Robin freezes.

“…Oh?”

Her tone shifts immediately—softer now, curious.

Meanwhile you’re covering your face in humiliation.

“S-Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

That laugh of hers fills the room.

And from then on, Robin becomes impossibly smug about it.

Not cruelly.

But she notices how your breathing changes whenever she carefully preens those tiny feathers behind your ears. Notices how you instinctively lean toward her touch despite trying to hide it.

Sometimes she’ll brush her fingers there absentmindedly while talking.

Just to watch you lose your train of thought mid-sentence.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse weakly one evening.

Robin only smiles innocently from behind you, continuing to smooth the feathers near your ear.

“Doing what?”

You turn to glare at her — only to completely fail when she presses one final delicate stroke along the sensitive feathers.

Your wings fluff immediately.

Robin’s expression melts into pure adoration.