🥰 Lando Norris Masterlist 🥰

Little Valkyrie (Azriel x reader)

summary: You’ve wanted Azriel forever. So how do you respond when he accidentally walks in on you in the bath reading a smutty romance novel?

warnings: smut!

After sparring for hours on the roof of the House of Wind with Cassian and Azriel, the only thing in the world I wanted was a melt-your-skin-off steaming bath with a glass of wine and the newest smutty novel Nesta gave me to borrow this morning. Sighing, I stripped my leathers off as quickly as possible. My muscles ached. I lit a few candles and poured some jasmine-scented soap into the bath as the water roared, bubbles creating a plush layer over the borderline boiling water.

Stepping in one foot at a time, I nearly moaned in relief as I sank deeper, bubbles almost to my chin. The water loosened my tense muscles as I leaned back in the huge clawfoot tub, letting my hair drape over the lip of the ceramic basin. I lifted the book, turning to the chapter I left off on. I had started the book today before sparring, stopping before what I knew was a particularly spicy chapter. I didn’t want to go into sparring all riled up, but would much rather read it alone where I could take care of myself when those feelings overwhelmed my senses. Or else I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t jump Azriel’s bones right in the middle of a training session.

My cheeks heated just at the thought of the spymaster. He had no clue I had such a huge crush on him. I hoped. At least I told myself that to ease some of the embarrassment of being so utterly captivated by someone so unattainable. I was one of the Valkyrie, yes, but most certainly not close enough to Azriel to assume he’d ever pay me any mind. He had other more important things to worry about, I was sure.

I hummed as I read the next chapter, the scene heating in a way that made my blood pump faster. My skin felt like it was tightening as I began to squirm, the scene overtly erotic. I pretended not to pay mind to the fact that the male I was picturing in the story just so happened to be a certain towering shadow-ridden Illyrian. I pressed my thighs together at the thought of him, his weight pressing down on me, his mouth exploring my body.

A fierce and quick knock at my door sounded before it was opening and I panicked, sitting up quickly sending a wave of water and bubbles splashing onto the marble flooring as I attempted to keep my book as dry as physically possible, horrified by the idea of ruining the pages. A tall, slender figure walked into my room, head swiveling at the sound of my clamoring. My room in the House of Wind had an open floor plan that had an archway that opened to the grand bathroom, cursed with no bathroom door. Usually, I am delighted by this feature, but right now not so much.

Hazel eyes met mine and I let out a small yelp. Oh so incredibly slowly, the corner of his full mouth curved upwards in a feline smirk. I wanted to disappear. Gods, this couldn’t be happening. No way was this real. I slipped in the tub and hit my head or something, surely.

“Azriel???” I shrieked out, trying to cover myself from his eyes, my cheeks so hot my body felt like it was on fire. But I didn’t tell him to get out.

He paused for a long moment, eyes set aflame with delicious deviance. Then he began to grin. His eyes caught on the smutty novel clutched in my hands.

“What are you reading there, little Valkyrie?” He purrs, taking one step closer to me with languid swiftness. A sudden roiling filled my gut as I realized he could probably smell how turned on I was. And how much more intense it got with his proximity.

“Battle tactics,” I say, tucking the book on the side of the tub opposite him so he couldn’t see the erotic romance cover. But then of course he’d probably already taken note of it much before I had.

“Is that so?” He grinned at me like the devil, poised to strike a dark bargain. And my god, did I want to shake his hand and seal my fate. “I had come to bring you the water bottle you left up at the House, but now I’m invested in these battle tactics. Care to share?”

I swallowed hard, my mouth opening but no sound came out. I scrambled to find the words for a witty response. Azriel prowled closer to me, eyes never leaving mine. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach as my heart pounded. He was at the side of the tub much too quickly and I was so distracted by his nearness that I didn’t anticipate his plan as he quickly swiped the book from my hands.

“HEY-” I yelled out, moving to stand up to grab it back, but quickly noticed just how naked I was. He chuckled, knowing I could only steal the book back from him if I exposed my naked body to him as well. Which I was not ready to do. He made me so nervous. He moved to the vanity, swiftly hopping up to perch on the sink, legs hanging off. He opened to the bookmarked page, his face triumphant.

His eyebrows shot up, eyes flicking over to me as he devoured the words on the page. I chewed my nails, feeling so embarrassed I was close to tears. But I was also thrilled at his closeness and attention.

“Battle tactics, indeed, little Valkyrie.” He purred, continuing to read. And I swear, something shifted about his scent. A thrill ran up my spine at the thought. “Definitely much to take notes on.”

“I’ve found I learn best by demonstration,” I say, unsure of where the sudden burst of confidence came from. But I decided then that I wanted him, and he was so clearly dangling himself in front of me like bait. So I decided I like to bite.

The shock is evident on his face but is quickly replaced with a wicked smile, full of the worst intentions. “As do I.” He sat the book behind himself, slowly lowering his body off the countertop as he surveyed me, waiting for silent permission to pounce, to devour his prey whole.

“I could use the practice,” I whisper, goosebumps racing across the surface of my skin, my senses heightened. A confirmation that I, too, wanted this.

His eyes darkened and his smile dropped as he quickly strode forward, plunging his arms into the bath, wrapping one around my back and the other underneath my bent knees. I screeched as he lifted me out of the water, flooding the floor and soaking himself as he pressed my naked body against his, bridal style.

He walked us to the bed, water and bubbles covering the both of us now. Before I could protest, he laid me back onto my bed, the water seeping into my blankets and sheets. But looking up at his gorgeous face, I couldn’t bring myself to care. He stood a step back, eyes raking and roaming over every inch of my body as if he wanted to memorize me.

“How long have you wanted me, sweet girl?” He asked. I almost scoff until I realize that he’s serious.

“Since I met you,” I admit, deciding not to play games. I was already so vulnerable underneath his erotic visual caresses.

“Was it me you were imagining? Reading in the bath, thinking about me doing all of those… dirty things to you?” He says, voice low and dark.

I nod slightly, blush blooming in my full cheeks. His hand lifts to caress the side of my face. He runs his thumb along my bottom lip, looking at me like I’m his last meal. My body feels like a livewire, skin buzzing and receptive to his touch.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he says breathily. “Though my thoughts may prove even dirtier.”

Before I can ask what he means, he leans forward, hands wrapping around the small of my waist as he lowers his lips to press a gentle kiss above my belly button, looking up at me as his lips touch my skin. My breath hitches, watching him in anticipation. Lifting his head again, he positions himself directly over me, hips pressing against me, my legs parted around his strong frame.

He stares into my eyes for a long moment as if trying to decipher me by looking inside them. His thumb strokes my cheek gently as I resist the urge to push my head into his hand and purr like a kitten. He will be my undoing. Every touch, every word, every look sets my very being on fire. Why did he have such a grip on me?

His hands roamed my body, my skin like clay under his touch, and he was the sculptor. My breathing quickened, my heart becoming a pounding hammer in my chest. His calloused and scarred hands starkly contrasted my soft and feminine surface. But he was much, much too clothed.

“I want to feel your skin against mine,” I whisper, hands running up his chest and down his leathered arms. He bends down to plant a slow and erotic kiss on my neck and moves to stand. My knees bent and legs hanging off the bed, I propped myself up on my elbows as I watched him reveal himself to me, bit by bit.

He shrugs his pants off, briefs going with them as he frees himself. My mouth goes dry. Cauldron boil me alive. He was huge. I wanted him so badly. He lowers himself to his knees, eyes in line with my knees, and gently wraps his hands around the underside of my calf, raising it so my leg was straight. He presses a deeply intimate and soft kiss to the side of my ankle.

“Aphrodite could not even sit at your table, my love,” He murmurs into my skin, slowly dropping my leg and standing between my knees, spread open for him.

I am practically panting with anticipation as his eyes lock with mine. I lift both my hands to reach for him as his hands find mine, both sets intertwining, fingers interlocking. He presses his weight slightly onto our conjoined hands, moving to lay on top of me again, knee pressing between my legs. The pressure makes me writhe, breathing heavier.

He lowers his perfect pink lips to mine, the feeling of them like velvet. He bites my lower lip, slowly dragging his teeth across it. My mouth opens for him and his tongue slides against mine, as he moans softly into my mouth, the sound almost a whimper. My back arches, pushing my chest closer to him, his nearness like a drug.

“What do you want?” He asks me, trying to drag words out of me.

“All of you,” I whine, wrapping my hands around his back to pull him closer to me, still not being near enough despite touching him. He groans in delicious approval.

"Ask me what I want."

"What do you want, Azriel?"

“I want to taste you,” he said, words breathy and needy. That sent a jolt right to the sensitive areas between my thighs.

“Please,” I begged, brows furrowed with want.

His response was to resume his attack on my neck with his mouth, pressing his hips down between mine harder, rocking against me slightly, and creating such wonderful friction had me throwing my head back, eyes rolling and a breathy moan falling from my lips. He hummed in response, the vibrations of his mouth against my skin sending goosebumps crawling across my skin. He continued his kisses, sliding down my body but being damn sure to take his time doing it. The anticipation was killing me, but gods his affection was glorious. He quite literally worshiped my body with his hands, tongue, and mouth. He reached the edge of the bed, planting one last slow kiss on my lower abdomen before he stood.

He gripped my hips and yanked me to the edge of the bed, a helpless yelp coming from me as he moves my body with such ease that it makes me lightheaded. He reaches forward and grips my neck underneath my jaw, gently pulling at me so I would sit up. The pout on my face is evident as his hand falls away from my neck. He chuckles at me, giving me a quick kiss before dropping down to his knees in front of me once more. Gods, the sight of him knelt before me sent a delicious chill up my spine. He was so unreasonably pretty. His hazel eyes dance as he looks up at me from under his thick lashes. He plants a kiss on both of my knees before pushing them apart, baring me to him. He let out a quiet groan at the sight of me, hand finding his painfully hard cock and providing some friction to ease the intense need that filled him. He gripped my throat again, pulling me down to meet his mouth. He kissed me intensely and sensually. Who was this male? Where had he been all my life?

He breaks away from our kiss, head twisting as he pulls one of my nipples into his mouth. He swirled his tongue around them, moaning as he continued to slowly pump himself. The sound had me arching for him, which had him chuckling again. He bites down softly on my nipple and I whimper, my pussy throbbing and desperate for him.

He switches to the other nipple, sucking and biting at it, raking incredibly explicit noises from me. Finally, he pulls back, his hair mussed from me lacing my fingers through it as I ground myself against him as much as I was able to. He pushes my knees apart further, putting a hand on the small of my back to pull me to the very edge of the bed. He lifted my feet one by one, placing them on the rails of the bed and leaving me entirely exposed to him. I moved to lay back but he bit my thigh. I cried out, looking at him incredulously.

“Keep looking at me.” It was a command, not a request. He was such a thrill. I obeyed, propping myself back up on my hands so I had a clear view of him. I gasped as he ran two fingers up my slit, gathering my wetness. And gods, was I wet for him. He lifted his fingers to his mouth, swirling his tongue around them, collecting all of me and letting out a deep moan at the taste of me. I felt myself growing continually wetter, my core aching for him.

“Azriel, please. I need you. Please touch me,” I whimpered, and I swear his eyes rolled back in his head at the sound. He turned his head and kissed my inner thigh before grinning back up at me. He leaned forward, eyes not leaving mine as he dragged the flat of his tongue all the way up my core, the feel of him such a relief I felt myself throbbing in anticipation of him.

He gave one more long lick before he went to work, suckling and swirling his warm and wet tongue against my clit as he eased one finger into me slowly. The glide of me had him desperate for any friction. He squeezed his cock with his free hand, begging himself to calm down so that this would last as long as possible. I bit my lip at the sight of him suckling at me, pleasuring himself to the taste and feel of me. I pressed my hips forward slightly, pressing his mouth harder into me. His eyes re-found mine in an instant and he hummed his approval as the hand that was on his cock moved to grip my hips, encouraging me to grind myself against him.

I was going to pass out. He was so sexy and I wanted him so badly and his tongue was quite literally cauldron-blessed. He added another finger then, pumping into me harder, dragging obscene moans from me. With every one of my moans, he hummed in return, sending vibrations to my clit and making me see stars. My head was swimming, sweat forming on my skin as he rode me to my high, my hands buried in his raven black hair and riding his face with fervor.

I came with a loud cry, my core squeezing around his fingers as he continued to pump into me, still sucking at my clit until it became painfully sensitive and I was squirming beneath him, and then he released me. He kissed the insides of both of my thighs, rising back up to his feet.

He placed the two fingers he had been pumping into me at my lips, pressing on my bottom lip so my mouth would open for him.

“Taste how well you did for me, little Valkyrie. You taste better than I ever dreamed,” he purred, pushing his fingers inside my mouth. I swirled my tongue around his fingers, his knees almost buckling as he groaned.

“I bet you taste even better,” I say, a devilish grin filling my face as I reach down for him. I grab his hip and pull him closer to me as I reach up to kiss him. Our tongues caress each other, exploring and devouring each other. I guide the tip of his cock through my folds. He glided against me with such ease he shuddered in reply with a string of murmured curse words.

“As tempting as having that pretty mouth wrapped around me sounds, I want you to ride me,” he panted, arms pressing into the bed on either side of me as I had a hand between us, rubbing him against myself. “Please.”

I wrapped myself around him, legs wrapping around his back. He lifted me, turning us and scooting back until he lay back on the bed with me on top of him. I leaned forward and sucked on his neck, his nails scraping down my back. I pushed my tongue in his mouth as I reached between us to line up his huge length with my entrance. I slowly sank down on him, a deep reverberating moan echoing through us both. He pulled me down onto his chest and kissed me slowly as he sat inside me not moving. Slowly, he pulled out and then rammed back into me. I whimpered into his mouth which earned a groan of approval from him. His mouth latched onto my nipple, swirling it on his tongue around me while I bounced on him. His hands roamed and praised my body with gripping and passionate touches.

He began to thrust up into me, meeting my own and creating a filthy, wet sound as we fucked each other with reckless abandon.

“You feel… so fucking good… FUCK…” He panted, hips still driving up to meet mine. I threw my head back in ecstasy, his hands rising to grip my breasts in his hands, squeezing roughly and kneading them between his huge hands.

“I could fuck you forever,” I gasp out.

“I’d beg on my knees for it,” he breathed, eyes shutting in pleasure, mouth open as he panted, nearing his climax as we continued with intense effort, both of us desperate to please the other. His thumb began to rub my clit as I slid up and down on his cock, making me throb around him, which sent him over his edge at the same time that I tumbled into mine.

We sang out in intense satisfaction, both coming together. He twitched inside me, cum dripping out of me from around his cock. I scooted downwards then, pulling him into my mouth and licking him clean as he groaned, hands laced in my hair.

“My filthy girl,” he purred to me, thumb rubbing across my bottom lip. I lifted my head, sitting up to look down at him. “You are dangerous. Now that I’ve had you, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop wanting you.”

“Good.” I grinned down at him, planting a kiss on his abs as I climbed off the bed. He whined in protest.

I reached my hands out to him, and he sat up to grip them in his own. “You’re invited, don’t worry.”

A sly grin covered his face at my words. I walked over to my shower, opened the glass door, and flicked the shower on, allowing it to heat. When it was a good enough temperature, I dragged the shadowsinger in after me, giggling as the door closed behind him and he began to kiss me again. His hands slid down to my thighs, lifting me with alarming ease as my legs wrapped around his center. I felt him harden against me again, his head buried in my neck as he started to laugh.

“I warned you.”

Omgggg wld u ever write carlos’ pov for the fic abt charles being a voyeur? Its sooo good i love it sm!!

hi anon! thanks for the lovely comment 💛 I think I’ve pretty much told all the story I wanted for this series, so I will not be revisiting Carlos’ perspective, which I think can be seen in part one!

in case you missed it, here’s the (evermore) threesome series! ✨

-> the violence of the dog days - charles’s perspective (prequel)

-> out on waves I’m being tossed / is there a line that I could just go cross - carlos / reader; charles watches (part one)

-> in the cracks of light / i dreamed of you - the threesome! (part two)

-> it was real enough / to get me through - the morning after (part three)

there’s another story that kind of exists in this universe unofficially as well:

-> put my mind at ease / pretty please - charles needs cheering up after a bad break up (part four-ish)

I so appreciate the love for this series but I also want to creatively explore other ideas and leave this threesome behind. I may have some ideas floating around for a mile high club threesome fic (courtesy of that vista jet video) so feel free to send me thoughts :)

𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝓢𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓼

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Untouchable - Azriel x Reader

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥ Part III ➻❥ Part IV ➻❥ Part V

➻❥ Part VI ➻❥ Part VII ➻❥ Part VIII ➻❥ Part IX ➻❥ Part X

Summary: For as long as you can remember, you have always had feelings for Azriel, your court's spymaster. But after centuries of watching him pine after your own cousin, hoping he'd eventually move on, your wish came true. He moved on-with Elain, your brother's mate's middle sister. Unable to watch him fall in love with someone else again, you flee from Velaris, from him. But things are a lot more complicated than that - more complicated than you ever imagined.

Wicked Games - Batboys x Reader

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥Part III

➻❥ Halloween Special

Summary: Desperate to pay off a debt, you decide to break into the penthouse of one of Prythian’s richest males, one rumored to make his money in a less than legal way. But after witnessing something you weren’t supposed to, you find yourself caught in a wicked game of cat and mouse with three of the most dangerous males in Prythian. (Modern AU!)

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny - Eris x Archeron!Reader

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥ Part III ➻❥ Part IV ➻❥ Part V

➻❥ Part VI

Summary: You find yourself ensnared by a sly, cunning fox. A very handsome, irritating one.

Lost in a Labyrinth - Azriel x Reader

➻❥ Part I ➻❥ Part II ➻❥ Part III Summary: Lonely and heartbroken after his near kiss with Elain, Azriel finds himself at the door to the most exclusive pleasure house in Hewn City, The Labyrinth, taking Rhysand’s cruel advice. What he expected to find was a pretty girl to warm a bed with him for a single night. But instead he finds something he never thought existed—his mate. A mate that is tangled up in something far more sinister than he could ever imagine.

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝓞𝓷𝓮-𝓢𝓱𝓸𝓽𝓼 & 𝓡𝓮𝓺𝓾𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓼

fluff ☀︎ angst ☾ smut ♡

Request guidelines

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝓐𝔃𝓻𝓲𝓮𝓵

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Scared to be Happier - Azriel x Reader ☾ ♡

No Going Back - Azriel x Reader (Part I) ☾

↠ Now That We Don’t Talk (Part II) ☾

Mystique - Azriel x Reader ☀︎

Arcane - Azriel x Reader ☀︎

The Crow's Poet - Azriel x Reader ☀︎

The Shadowsinger's Secret - Azriel x Reader ☾☀︎

Birds of a Feather - Azriel x Reader (Part I) ☾

↠ We Should Stick Together (Part II) ☾

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝓡𝓱𝔂𝓼𝓪𝓷𝓭

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Falling Apart for You - Rhysand x Reader ☾ ☀︎

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝓔𝓻𝓲𝓼

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Sly Fox, Dumb Bunny - Eris x Reader ☾ ☀︎

Last Solstice - Eris x Reader ☾ ☀︎

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

𝓜𝓲𝓼𝓬

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

Butterfly Fly Away - Batboys x Platonic!Reader ☾ ☀︎

team effort ✴︎ cl16, cs55

genre: 18+, pwp (very little plot), filthy, fem!reader 

word count: 3.3k 

It was supposed to be a one-time thing, but now you’re in-between your boyfriend and his teammate again. So really, maybe, this could become a regular thing. (sequel of sorts to this but can stand alone just fine)

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because… alright. a threesome, penetrative sex, anal sex, oral sex (M receiving), handjob (F receiving), double penetration (crowd leaves), dirty talk (degradation), crying, breeding, rough sex, size kink, requires suspension of belief regarding the inner workings of anal and positions apologies, spit kink (crowd leaves again)

probably the most requested thing i get, and i felt like practicing my pwp writing so—i hope you like it everyone! :) love auds

“Hey, you brought the pretty girl,” teases Carlos, a glass of alcohol in hand. He pushes it into Charles’ hand and you watch as your boyfriend takes a sip, vision semi-obstructed by how dark the place is. “Mind if I get a picture?”

“Course I did.” Charles smiles, and his left eye drops into a subtle wink. “And sure, she begged to come anyway.” His teammate laughs. “Nothing I haven’t heard before. Come say hi to the others.”

Your face turns hot when it registers what he’s just said, but it’s too late to get a quip in; a gentle hand at your waist is guiding you through the crowd of people, by the DJ booth, and into the seats just beside it populated by several familiar faces. You accept and return a few hellos and heeeys from Lando and Pierre, among others, and when a shot is offered to you by Danny, you take it.

Charles lets you wander around the area for a while to get used to the place, watches you laugh about something with Carmen and try your hand at the DJ table with Lando, combing your hair over to one side. You take a few shots because George feels like “letting loose” (he takes two). 

He sees a patch of concealer just below your collarbone; granted, it’d have been hidden if you were wearing something less low-cut than your dress right now, but he spots it and he immediately realizes what it is with an amused laugh.

When his eyes glide upward from your cleavage, he finds you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded and mouth tugged into a pretty smile. He sees you excuse yourself, walking right into his arms, pouting. He tips his glass over to your lips, pours some of his drink in.

“What’s the matter, baby? Wanna smoke?” He leans against the railing of the VIP area, seating himself there and pulling you close so you’re pressed up against him. You inhale his scent, his cologne, nip at his jaw. You always get so touchy when you’ve got some alcohol in you.

There’s a blunt or three being passed around, you smell it. “Nothing. I think ‘m getting a little tipsy, I don’t want to crossfade.” You blink and it’s like your eyelids are droopy with honey. The party’s thick with the heady scent of tequila, mixed perfume, weed, and saturated with heavy bass. If you’re totally honest you’ve lost track of time.

“There you are,” goes a voice, and you tense. 

“I was looking for you, too, mate.” Your boyfriend’s arm reaches to someone behind you and shakes. “Girlfriend’s feeling a bit tipsy.” He pulls his hand back in, rests it over your the small of your back. 

“You okay?” Carlos leans in, his voice hot against your ear. You blink, in a daze of tipsy and hot, nodding. You’re in between them now, still pressed against your boyfriend. Slowly, your head lolls onto Carlos’ shoulder, exposing your neck. If you stepped back just a bit, you realize—

—you’d feel Carlos’ dick pressed against your ass. “A little tired,” you say, opening your eyes to meet your boyfriend’s. Normally they’re green, but now they’re so dark you can barely tell. The limited lighting doesn’t help. Your knees are weak with the way you resist the urge to grind back onto Carlos, who’s laughing, observing your ditzy face. 

“Let’s get you out of here, huh?” Charles smiles. He’s always so sweet. Doing what you want, what you need, a nice guy in that respect. So he can take what he wants later. He and Carlos down the rest of their drinks, and they’re both ushering you out the back exit and directly into the parking lot.

It’s a direct replay of what happened a few months ago, and what happened a few times afterward. After dinners, races, nights out—it wasn’t too frequent, but enough that it became a thing. Enough, too, that you could grow antsy if it didn’t happen for too long. 

Your boyfriend brought a different car today, his Range Rover with a spacious backseat you’re being guided into. The lack of heavy bass and strobe lights help you feel more sober, but don’t help with the arousal at all. As you climb, your dress hikes up a bit, and Carlos catches a peek of your panties underneath, white and almost see-through, showing the outline of your pussy.

They’re on either side of you, your breath hitching when they lean in closer, lip caught between your teeth and eyes screwed shut. Your boyfriend’s hand grazes your thigh and you spread your legs, involuntary, sighing a low please. Please what, you don’t even know.

“You want this?” Charles asks. He takes things slowly, a dreamy smile on his face, eyebrows knitted together. His hand moves upward, and he runs a few teasing fingers over the lace of your white panties, pressing them harder until you’re starting to squirm, breathless ahs leaving your lips.

“Please,” you say, voice small and desperate. “Yes.”

Your approval makes them more excited; they’ve both missed this more than they’re willing to let on. Your mouth is half open, letting out noises, eyes half-open; Carlos wonders what you’d look like covered in cum. Both his and Charles’, splayed all over your pretty waiting face.

The first time this happened, Carlos watched for the most part. He’d been chained to the driver’s seat, listening to the wet noises of Charles’ fingers fucking into you. He made eye cotnact with you right as you came, a long, drawn-out moan leaving your mouth. He fucked you another time. And he’s missed the feeling. He’s missed the sight of your fucked-out face, moaning on his cock, or his teammate’s, or both.

You press your lips to Charles and he encourages you to part them, slowly deepening the kiss until you’re moaning into his mouth, hips bucking up into nothing. “Please,” you say, “give me something.” Anything, you’ll take anything.

Carlos brings two big fingers to his mouth, laves his tongue over them, and brings them to the apex of your thighs, pushing aside the lace and fucking them into you, one by one. You gasp into Charles’ mouth—his fingers are so thick, pumping in and out at a brutal pace without waiting for you to adjust to the strength. You whimper, breaking the kiss because everything’s too much, head leaning back and eyes meeting the grey ceiling of the car.

“God, she’s wet.” You hear the teasing smile without looking up. “And tight.”

“I know,” your boyfriend says, smiling as he sucks a hickey onto your throat. Your legs quiver. 

It’s Charles’ voice again, sweet and deep against your ear. “Feel good?”

“Yes,” you say, nodding eagerly, lifting your head up and looking right at him. 

“Thank him,” he orders. They always do this, make you talk and use your words when your brain is all scrambled and going a thousand different directions. It’s only worse when they start talking about you like you’re not there, using dirty words and sliding into native languages you can’t understand, but they can, and they laugh watching you whimper for more.

“Thank—thank you,” you whisper, turning from your boyfriend’s face to Carlos.

“You’re welcome, princesa. You’re going to make us feel good, too, right?”

You nod.

“Why don’t you start now?” The instruction comes from Charles and you follow suit, hands going from your sides to the tents in their jeans, grabbing at the huge bulges there. You’re losing grip, Carlos’ big fingers are moving faster, feeling your orgasm approach faster. 

Already? Shiiit, your boyfriend says with a low laugh. Go ahead and cum first, baby. Go ahead.

His words are so sweet, kissing up and down your neck, the stimulation pushing you further until you’re cumming from just two fingers. The messy squelch of Carlos’ fingers moving in and out of you gets them both so hard, aching to fuck you, take you apart, make your voice raw. Your moans grow louder and louder, legs trying to close around the hand in between them—they’re held open by two free hands and you have to lie there and take it.

“‘M cumming,” you gasp, tension bursting inside you, pussy contracting around Carlos’ digits. You squeeze at their bulges again, wishing you had the coherency to undo the buttons and the zips. They get the message, undoing their jeans just enough to pull out their cocks.

“Wanna suck you off,” you say, turning to Charles. Shyly, you add, “Both of you.”

The only way to do that is by kneeling on the limited floor space of the car. There’s not much space, and you shuffle around a few times, but eventually you find a position, legs folded and on your knees, in between the two of them.

They’re both looking down at you with dark eyes and devious, teasing grins that feel downright evil, hands wrapped loosely around their cocks. They jack themselves off a few times, and you hoist yourself up higher to watch closely, brows furrowed.

“Open your mouth,” Carlos says sharply, tone low and rushed. You obey, sticking your tongue out, and watch as he rubs the precum off his tip and onto your tongue. He laughs, looking at your boyfriend. “Look at that. Like that?”

“Yea,” you mutter, turning a bit to let your boyfriend to the same, letting your spit drip down from the tip so the glide is easier. He slaps your cheek with it, laughs at the way you pout, and advises Carlos to do the same. You turn again, taking Carlos into your mouth until he’s prodding at the back of your throat and it’s wet all over.

They love seeing you like this—with their precum being smeared al over your shiny, spit-covered cheeks and lips, tongue peeking out to get a taste every time they drag their cocks closer to your mouth. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“Sucks dick like she was made for it,” Carlos says, punctuating his sentence with a quip in Italian. They both laugh as you gag around Charles’ dick, jerking Carlos off messily. You’re choking, precum coating the back of your throat and wrist wearing out.

“You look so pretty, baby.” Your boyfriend says, grunting with pleasure.

“Pretty lips, too, yeah?” Carlos says, his hand shadowing yours and making you jack him off faster.

“She can’t reply, Carlos. Too busy gagging on my dick,” Charles says, and your eyes well up with embarrassment that you’ve basically soaked through your panties from their words alone. You want them to cum, cover your lips and eyelashes with them so you can scoop it off and let them watch you swallow it. Be good for them, their good girl.

But they never like cumming if it’s not in you, or after they’ve been in you, so you anticipate the way you’re guided off your boyfriend’s cock by your hair. They tug your head backwards, a bit on the edge of roughly, exposing the column of your throat, littered with spit and lovebites.

Your pussy is getting wetter, dripping through your panties and onto your legs folded underneath. It’s the first thing they inspect when they heave you back into the middle of the backseat, bent over Carlos’ lap so your ass is on full display for Charles and, if he cranes his head, Carlos, too.

It’s humiliating. Your mind’s so hazy you can barely tell whose hands are whose, groping at your ass, pulling away the lace to reveal your puffy, wet cunt and letting the thin strip of fabric snap back to make you yelp. Two fingers push into you, going fast instantly until you’re sobbing for them to slow down. It’s Charles. You can tell because you feel the metal of his rings.

There’s a third at that point, stretching you out further, getting you even wetter and more desperate. You cum easily, overstimulated, tears rolling down your spit-streaked face as you quiver with it, blinking them away as you’re guided back into the middle. They maneuver themselves so they’re facing each other, your pussy right above Carlos’ tip, which is just beside your boyfriend’s.

You’re itching to sit yourself down, feel the familiar stretch of his dick, big and barely fitting when he stuffs himself inside you. It’s addictive. But there’s something Charles wants to do first, evident because he’s not yet letting you ride Carlos, his big hands bruising at your hips. “We’ve done enough to your pretty pussy, haven’t we? Your lips, too, that cute mouth.” He coos, almost. “But there’s something we haven’t even touched tonight, baby.”

Carlos’ hands spread your cheeks apart and Charles’ spit-soaked thumb rubs over your tight hole, causing you to shiver. Oh, God. You squirm above their laps, heart beating with nerves and arousal, pussy rubbing over the tips of their dicks as you go. “I’m nervous,” you whimper.

“Aw, go give Carlos a kiss,” your boyfriend says, his voice teasing and goading. You lean forward, slotting your mouth onto Carlos’ soft lips, parting them with your tongue immediately. He gets you all needy when you kiss him, smiling and enjoying your mindless, needy little grinds. As you kiss him, messy with spit and tongues colliding, you feel fingers teasing you again.

You whimper, Carlos’ hands roughly pulling the low-cut top of your dress down to grope at your tits, roughing them up, flicking your nipples. You moan out loud, caught up in the multiple sensations; your boyfriend loosens you up until his finger goes deep, deeper, bottoming out and stretching your ass out.

He collects some of your slick to lube another finger up, stuffing two into your tiny little hole. You gasp with the new feeling, lips open against Carlos’, who wraps a hand around your throat to guide you into kissing him again. Distractions. Pleasure.

“Jesus, she’s tight,” Charles says, not addressing you at all.

“She’s being really good for me up here,” Carlos replies, squeezing your tits. “Taking everything I give her.”

“Give me more,” you beg, licking over his lips until he’s parting them to kiss you messily all over again. You’re unaware, lost in the numb pleasure and dull painful stretch, that there are three buried in your ass now. He should prep more, Charles figures, but he’s impatient, just wanting to wreck you already, fuck moans out of you until you’re crying.

He nudges the tip of his dick against your ass, slipping the head in and listening to your ohhh as he goes, groaning. It hurts, Charles, you whisper, but your whine is swallowed into a kiss. 

“Relax, baby,” he says, gritting his teeth. “Just relax.”

You’re so tight, squeezing him so, so tight as he bottoms out.

You’re clenching around him so hard he could cum, pump all his cum in you and watch it leak out. But he’s patient. He’s sweet. He lets Carlos finally coax his own cock up your cunt, where the glide’s easier, but the stretch now is unfathomable. You blink tears out of your eyes, ones of pain that slowly become unbelievable pleasure, moans spilling forth from your lips, slick gushing out of your puffy cunt.

Carlos thrusts upward, deep, and eventually Charles finds a rhythm too, your legs spread and eyes rolling back with how fast they’re slamming into you. You want to move, you want to avoid the pleasure from how overwhelming it is, the way it feels when they both bottom out at the same time ans you can feel the way your stomach bulges with Carlos’ cock.

“Slow down,” you whine, but they only laugh, watching your face grow more sweaty and flushed and debauched.

“Feel good?” Charles asks. “Use your words, love.”

“S—so fucking good,” you say, words punched out of you thrust by thrust. Carlos leans forward, brings his flushed forehead just flush of yours, both of you bobbing in time with their thrusts, and spits messily into your half-open mouth. Most enters, some splatters over your lips, and your eyes darken with it. You’re certain you’ve cum again just from that.

“Swallow it,” he laughs. “Be a good slut.” His eyes break from yours and meet Charles’, and they exchange a few quips in Italian before your boyfriend’s hand is raking you backwards, leaning over and spitting again. He pushes your cheek around a little, laughing at your docile, fucked-out face.

“Swallow that now,” he says. “Both of them.”

Obediently, you shut your lips, your whimpers pausing as you swallow their spit down. Your cheeks are burning with embarrassment.

“There you go,” Carlos says. You’re absolutely falling apart on their dicks, wet and messy and hot, your legs quivering with it. Carlos slams up harder, pressing your lips together again so he can feel your moans, hear your cute little voice saying Carlos please let me cum  right by his ear.

He pulls out, moving himself higher to use your mouth instead; the added space gives Charles the opportunity to fully bend you over, on your knees and too weak to use your elbows, face smushed against Carlos’ dick. You’re shaking, pussy still trembling and tears of overstimulation rolling down your cheek. You’re struggling to take his dick well, but Charles keeps fucking you, determined to finish.

He pushes you down so your back arches deeper, your lips parted around Carlos’ huge cock. “That’s right,” he groans. “Take it, come on, be a good girl for me.”  

“She’s so tight still,” he says to Carlos. The latter’s hand strokes over your hair, pulls at it, grips at either side of your throat so he can fuck your face properly. He fucks your throat hard, watches you cough and squirm around his spit-coated cock, his balls slapping your face every time he bottoms out. He’s close—Charles is close—and you’ve cum twice again now, pulling off and whimpering I’m cumming— before finishing, gushing release all over your thighs.

“It’s our turn now,” Charles orders. They pull you off at the same time, and you go on your knees again on the floor, gazing up at them with big eyes and a flushed, pretty face, lips pink and puffy from having just been fucked. 

You reach two hands up and jerk them both off again, both their hands guiding you to go faster, faster and faster until—

You flinch, the first hot spurt landing just on your cheek, then your lips, then a bit on your nose. Somewhere in between, Carlos presses his tip to your lips, coaxing them open so he can shoot cum on your tongue and chin. They lean back, collapsing onto the backseat, heaving sighs.

They both look down at you, your nasty, cum-coated face, smiling up at both of them. Carlos blinks a couple times and then smiles. “Hey, mind if I get a picture?”

—the seasons of love

or: the enemies to lovers situationship fic charles leclerc x female reader summ. winter, the first time. the start of the year, the start of it all. minors dni, nsfw warnings under the cut. 7k words part two

18+ because: brat taming, fingering, oral (f receiving), name calling, spit, unprotected sex, overstimulation, booty call!, masturbation (f receiving), voyeurism, mad sass, fucking porn without plot basically.

There’s nothing special about the club scene in Monte Carlo. If you’ve been to a club in any major city, anywhere in the world, you’ve been to a club in Monaco. It’s all neon lights and kaleidoscope colors and poorly lit dance floors and mid-tier DJs who think they’re the next coming of Jesus. 

Tonight is no exception. The air is thick and heavy with the scent of floral perfume and alcohol, the entire room shaking with the pulsating beat of the bass, reverberating off every single corner and shaking the liquor in your glass. Bodies move—yours included—half in sync with the music, half in step with their drunken stupor. Perched in the safety of Charles’s section, away from the swaying forms of laughter and shouting and screaming, your entire body thumps alone to the beat from the DJ booth a couple meters away. 

Across the section, Charles sits stoic on a couch, taking up a seat and a half and frozen like some magnetic force. His eyes are stuck on you in a way that pulls goosebumps from your skin, makes you irrational angry at him. You’re feeling particularly bratty today, egged on by the tequila and his visible annoyance. 

You’re on your way to interject into his pity party when your sister catches your arm, pulls you by your bicep to dance with her. Her palms are sweaty and cold and you hope that it’s the condensation from her cold glass that’s got her all clammy. The two of you have always been quite a sight after a few drinks. You get your tolerance from your mother, are both disastrous lightweights, feel the need to give any and everyone around you a show. 

The two of you twirl to the music with little effort, laughing like you’re seven and the hazard littered floor under your feet is the old brown carpet from the family room you grew up hosting dance parties in. It’s all hair and giggles and hands in the air like you just don’t care. Everytime your glance catches his, he’s staring back, nursing his drink and half participating in a conversation with your brother-in-law and Jo. 

“What’s his fucking problem?” you ask, leaning over to shout into your sister’s ear.

“He can’t dance,” she slurs. You snort. He can dance.

You whistle, loud and commanding and cat-call-ish even though he’s already watching you. “Charles! Get out here and dance, you fucking buzzkill!”

Your sister joins in on the fun, playfully swaying her hips to the music, tossing out an imaginary fishing line to her husband and reeling him over, calling along teasingly to Charles. “Yeah, show us what you’ve got, Il Predestinato!”

Charles rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. “I don’t dance,” he calls back with a soft chuckle. He tries to play it cool, like always, but everyone in the room knows you’re pushing his buttons. You always are. The reason he keeps you around is the same reason you stay around; your families’ relationship predates any animosity between the two of you. That, and the friend group was founded before you loathed each other and it would be too much work to try and split it up now. You’d probably never see Joris again. 

You dance closer to him, putting on a dramatic show and a poor fight against the urge to continue challenging him. “Come on,” you tug on his arm, just out your bottom lip into a pretty little pout. “Live a little.”

He’s never been able to turn down one of your challenges, however thinly veiled they might be. It’s his own personal sore spot, the one that you poke and prod as often as you can. Competition has always been the foundation of your mutual annoyance, it’s not going to suddenly change after some eighteen years of consistency. Finally, he relents, lets you think you’re pulling him to his feet, dragging him to dance with you and your sister. 

His moves are stiff and awkward, almost hard to watch. You laugh, because he’s wound up so fucking tight in two weeks you’d have a diamond. “See!?” your sister laughs, the contagion of it spreading to even the brunt of the joke. “I told you!” she continues, slinking her arm around her husband’s neck sloppily. His arm grips her side to hold her steady. It makes you feel sick. 

A smirk tugs on his lips, and for a brief moment, there’s a hint of something more in his eyes. Not annoyance or frustration. Something seven, something innocent and childish. It’s fleeting, and you take a deep breath because the music feels quieter now. You down what’s left of  your cocktail to clear your head, to calm the sudden flutter of nerves. 

The more he drinks and the longer he’s forced to dance, the lighter and more magnetic he becomes. “You know, Charles, I never thought I’d see the day,” you tease. He’s been in a near constant state of pity-party for weeks now, ever since his dumb ass got dumped by another girl wildly out of his league. 

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is as amused as it is drunk. “Don’t get too excited. It’s the liquor,” he retorts, a piss poor attempt at downplaying how much fun he’s having. He wouldn’t dare to give you the satisfaction. You lean in closer, brush your body against his, fueled by the noise and the alcohol. 

“The liquor doing the touching, too?” you ask. 

He’s always been a touchy drunk. Since before you and your friends were allowed to drink, he’s been hands-on. And maybe it’s because this is the first time he’s grabbing your hips, the first time his broad hand is flat over your stomach, but you’d never noticed him as this touchy with his girlfriends or his girls that appear when he’s around. Whatever it is, the more he drinks, the more comfortable he is with his hands on you, and the less you find the nerve to care. 

It doesn’t matter how many times he does it, though. Every touch burns your skin. It’s a sick little game you two play. Sick and twisted and so, so unlike the two of you. 

Watch yourself—he warns, hand on the small of your back. You play with fire. Well established and well documented, though; you never back down either. No, the thrill of annoying him is enough to dive head-first, to push his buttons until they stick. “Am I?” you ask, as innocently as the tequila can muster, taking hold of his wrist and moving it so his arm is wrapped around your midsection, fighting to settle in the space between your waistband and shirt hem. 

You respond to every one of his careful touches, ever lingering finger on your arm and your waist and your back. When you close your eyes, you imagine the nonsense patterns he draws on your skin like it’s on canvas in a museum, hung front and center just for you. Your inhibitions are slipping too, and you let yourself trail wandering fingertips over his body, too.

This isn’t the Charles you’re used to, the one you go head-to-head with every fifteen minutes. This is something entirely new, so far into uncharted territory you’re not even sure which way is north. There’s something particularly intriguing about the nerves bouncing around your gut. 

Everything fades away into the dark and crowded club. You don’t know if your sister and brother-in-law are still standing there, if any of your friends are. All you know if the electric charge of this, of every teasing remark and touch that draws you closer, forces you to test the waters of the newfound layer of tension. 

Everything is building, it feels like, to some grand crescendo of emotion and desire. Before there’s room to explore it, though, to dive deeper into the unspoken shift, the moment is interrupted by the return of the friends you didn’t notice leaving. 

The night drags on, the lines between annoyance and attraction blurring into some chaotic muddle of intoxication. Nothing is clear, nothing except the sobering and unignorable pull. It lingers in the air above you, in the space between like a secret just begging to be unraveled. 

You’ve got another drink now, because you can only think of one decision that would be worse than more tequila. In due time, you’re worried you’re a lost cause when it comes to that choice as well. His eyes stay on you, even from a distance, and you revel in the glory of his attention. Embolden by it all, you continue fucking with him. “Having fun yet, Charles?” you ask, knowing smile, voice dripping in subtle suggestion. 

He raises a brow, the corners of his lips quirking up. You don’t think you’ve ever spent much time looking at them, the soft shade of pink and the softer skin. “I suppose I can tolerate it,” he replies with teasing eyes. He’s irritated by your laugh, by your proximity, by your lips brushing against his ear when you whisper; you’re not the only one here trying to have fun. His jaw tightens but he doesn’t take your bait. Instead, he pulls you closer, sways in rhythm with you and replies, “I’m here to enjoy myself, not entertain you.”

He sends your brattiness running full-tilt. Forces you to carefully consider every movement, every ounce of playfulness that you allow to seep into your demeanor and the proactive sway of your hips. You grin at him every chance you get, sly and calculated, daring him to resist.  

You lean in close, brush against his ear and can blame it on practicality, on the bass and the music and the DJ if anyone were to question your actions. You rest a hand on his chest. “I know you love my attention.”

His breath hitches at your audacity, heart racing so quick you can feel it in your palm. He pulls you closer, dangerously close to your lips and says, “you talk too much. Maybe it’s time someone shuts you up.”

You scoff, low and teasing. “I’d like to see you try.”

[18 minutes later]

You step into the well-lit lobby less than a pace behind him. Your hands are interlocked, have been for every block of the darkened streets—since he grabbed yours and pulled you out of the club. “Admit it,” you giggle. “You love having me push your buttons.”

He remains stoic, jaw set as he pushes the button on the elevator. The tension is at a boiling point. You’re either about to kill each other, to be on the news for some grand double murder, or something so, so much worse is going to unfold. 

He leads you to the apartment without a word, but as soon as the door closes behind him, all is lost. Your head is bumping into the drywall before you even realize what’s happening, his lips harsh against yours, the pent up frustration and desire snapping like a dried twig. 

It’s fierce and passionate and while you never, not for a single moment in your life, imagined what he would taste like, you somehow knew it would be like this, cool and fresh and drunk. He licks into your mouth, messy and intense, teeth clacking and both of you fighting for some nonexistent upper hand. 

Fireworks are going off outside. They shake the windows with explosive gravitas as you’re blindly led by his backwards steps down the hallway. You realize that in an entire lifetime of knowing each other, this is the first time you’ve been in his place. It’s not what you expected, from what you can gather—all clutter and red cars and a boy who never had to drop his dream. “They’re going to look for us,” you say between sloppy, open mouthed kisses. 

He mumbles against your skin, strong hands on either side of your jaw. “Let them look.”

You walk through a doorway, into a bedroom clad with clutter and blue sheets. He would have blue sheets. There’s another firework, loud and booming, it makes you jump. You check your watch over his shoulder, pretend your hand doesn’t shake. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Okay.” Your knees bump into his and he sits on the edge of the bed.

You laugh, climb onto his lap, your arms strewn around his shoulders, broad and strong and you laugh again–this time into his mouth. What the fuck is going on. Seriously, what the fuck is this? “Happy New Year.”

He sighs, pulls his mouth from yours long enough to roll his eyes, to speak annoyedly into the hot air between your lips. “Yeah, whatever. Happy New Year.”

“Charles,” you mutter, hand on his chest. You think he’s going to regret this more than you will. People have always told you he’s the best kind of person. You’re not held in the same regard, and you know it. Some people are made to regret and others are made to be the regret. 

“Jesus Christ,” he laughs, but it’s curt and passive. Annoyed, as always, even when he palms at your ass, traces his hands along the bottom of your hiked up dress and pulls you down against him with a bruising grip. “Shut the fuck up.” You tug at the hem of his shirt, pull it off over his head in a swift movement. 

“You’re doing a piss-poor job at making me.”

He moves you like you’re a fucking doll, like it’s lightwork, tossing you down against the mattress and swapping your positions in a swift movement. The strength and agility of it makes your head spin. He’s not supposed to make your head spin, he’s supposed to make it ache. 

But no, no. You do ache for him. All of you aches for him, for his calloused hands and the roughness of his jeans against your thighs and the soft contrast of his lips against everything else. It’s embarrassing. You can’t believe he’s got you like this, hands pinned above your head while he buries his tongue in your mouth, grinds his hips against yours. The coarse denim is almost painful on your sensitive skin, but the growing bulge pulling the fabric tight is more intoxicating than any cocktail. 

“You’re such a fucking brat,” he says, bites a bruise against the skin just above your clavicle. “Spoiled little shit.”

He sinks to his knees, big blue or green or whatever fucking color his eyes are today watching you intently, boring into you with blown, hungry pupils.  His fingers trail along your underwear, pulling the thin, lacey fabric to the side, and then removes them all together. He gloats when he runs his thumb through your folds. “So fucking wet.”

“It’s not for you,” you goad. 

“Oh?” He nods slowly, spreading your slick with the steady digit, watching you carefully for reaction. “For who then?”

Your eyes flutter shut when the pad of his thumb presses against your clit, circles it slowly, teases you. He’s unfocused, his mind lapsing and giving you a much needed in, a clear shot to piss him off. “Your teammate.”

“Fuck off.” You first. 

“You’re right, Charles,” you speak slowly, careful to control your breathing, to hide every tell you might have. “Someone should shut me up. Do you know anyone?” Without warning, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curls them like someone had given him a diagram of your body. You gasp at the suddenness of it all. Yeah, he mutters, utterly delighted with himself. Yeah, I think I know someone.

You roll your eyes, push his head down, down, mouth onto your core. There, in the midst of licking a long stripe through your cunt, he fucking laughs, shakes his head with a subtlety you’d never perceive if it wasn’t for the tip of his nose bumping your clit when he does it. At least he can follow basic fucking instructions. 

His dick must hurt pretty damn bad, all hard and swollen in his pants, because he’s unbuttoning his jeans and freeing himself from the constraints of the fabric while lapping at you, the other hand still fucking into you with steady pace and hazy curl. You can’t see it, view obstructed by the mattress and limbs and hair, but you can tell by the way his shoulders move that he’s trying to get himself off at the same time he works on you. 

You’re not going to make his job that easy. You require all of his attention, pure and undivided and hopefully just as infuriated as you are. You reach down to the apex of your legs, pull his head up by his chin. “Just fuck me, already, you prick.”

He rises to his feet, shakes his head, “you’re a needy little thing,” he remarks. Needy? You haven’t fucking seen needy. 

He guides the head of his cock through your folds, spreading slick and spit and smacking himself against your cunt. 

Your lips purse into a sharp line. “Don’t tease me.”

“Why not?” He taunts, “you’ve been teasing for hours.”

“It’s different,” you grumble. 

“How?” You could strangle him, him and all his questions. What’s a person have to do to get fucked properly around here? You already sacrified your morals by pulling tight against the navy blue sheets.  A woman can only make so many sacrifices. 

You groan, heavy and exasperated. He’s such a pest. “It just–oh, fuck you–” without warning, he plunges into you, buries himself in your cunt until he bottoms out, skin on skin and the sore sting of him stretching you. Your fingers bruise into his arms, nails scraping over his shoulder blades with a gasp. He gives you no time to adjust to him, rutting into you with deep, measured thrusts. What was that, he prodes. Somehow, you find the poise to stabilize yourself, to reply smugly. “it just is.”

His objective isn’t your pleasure, no. That would be his prerogative, a side privilege, a requirement in his quest to get you to close your mouth and stop pestering for once. Making you come is just another box to check. 

You don’t fuck someone if you’re not going to finish, though. Sleeping with Charles might be a lapse in judgment, but being someone’s play toy, letting him reap without sowing, that’s a complete disregard of your dignity

Your fingers find your clit, circle it in just the right sequence, combining with the curve of his cock to push you closer, closer, closer to the edge of the fucking world. Your entire body burns, everywhere, all over, all at once you sweat. Tell me–he insists, voice short and breathy. Tell me when you’re going to come. “I thought you were trying to shut me up?”

“Just, fuck, just tell me.” He palms over your breasts, still covered by your bra and the fabric of your dress, however thin. “So many fucking clothes,” he grumbled, stalling inside you, hands slipping under your back, between you at the mattress to pull you off the bed. You hastily pull the dress over your head, toss it somewhere onto the clothing cluttered floor. Better? You ask. “Better,” he nods, bites your bottom lip roughly, licking against your teeth. One of the hands that explore the skin of your back make quick work of the clasp on your bra, dropping the straps from your shoulders and your back is against the sheets again, his hands groping at you, pinching your nipple between his middle and ring finger, working over it until you’re humming profanities and huffing into his mouth. 

Hate and desire is such a fine, blurry line. Anyone who tells you differently is a liar. 

“M’gonna,” you choke on your words. “I’m–shit–I’m coming.”

“Yeah,” He picks up his pace, maintains a steady, toe-curling rhythm. “Come for me,” his voice heavy and growled. “Come on my dick.”

You do. You come for him, hard and long, wrapping a leg around his hip in a failed attempt to still him, to just be full of him and nothing more. He’s stronger, though, and fucks you through the whole thing, faster, harder, big hands braced on your hips for leverage. You explore the idea that a person really could be fucked in half, forced right open. 

“Good try,” you sputter, shaky and broken words leaving your lips before you’ve found a gravity that isn’t him. You lean up to kiss him, wrap your hand around the back of his neck and pull him to meet you halfway. Your fingers tickle the short hair at the nape of his neck, raise goosebumps to his skin. “Maybe next time,” you hum into his open mouth. 

He spits a long string of saliva into your mouth when you move to close the gap. You laugh around it, down it in a single gulp and lick your lips, sticking out your tongue to showcase your empty mouth, big innocent doe-eyes watching his reaction, his eye roll and devilish smirk.

“Like I said–” you start, but he’s flipping you over, tossing you around like a ragdoll.  You giggle, high on the teasing and the taunting and then he’s fucking your face into the mattress. He’s got your hair gathered up into a ratty ponytail, uses it like a handle, forcing your back into an arch, your ass to perk up into the air. 

God, he’s so fucking deep, turning you into a mess of bruises and sweat stricken skin. Your hips bounce back against him, angle in any imaginable way in an attempt to feel him deeper, to feel him in your stomach and your chest and your head. To feel him everywhere that counts. 

“Putain, taking me so good, baby” he groans, lets the praise and the pet name slipping past his lips in a moment that goes unnoticed by neither of you. He smacks your ass with a firm hand, trying to mask his words after they’ve already been spoken. Your eyes roll back into your head and you come again, without warning. You decide before you get to think about it that it was the stinging imprint of his hand that pushed you tumbling over the edge. Whatever the real reason, you’re up two-nothing, or, depending how you look at it, he’s the one winning. 

That’s all any of this is, one big game. A power struggle. You’re always fighting to win, and this is not different. If there’s a way to lose at a game where everyone is supposed to win, one of you is going to fucking find it and force it on the other. 

You’re the one doing the flipping, now. The pushing and the shoving so he’s on his back. You straddle him and he gives you this look like he’s fully pussy-drunk, sick and euphoric and floating somewhere far from here. You’re so winning at this. “Jesus Christ,” you poke, “wipe your fucking drool.”

His entire face contorts when you sink down onto him. Everytime you think you’ve reached a limit, he finds a way to hit a spot impossibly deeper than the last. His hips lift up off the bed to meet you halfway, rutting into pleasure spots you didn’t even know you had, hand moving to your cunt, thumbing lazily at your clit, leaving you fuzzy and drunk in a mess of mumbled moans above him. 

When you come for the third time, messy and sweaty, nothing that leaves your lips is distinguishable, a mess of French and English and curses and nonsensical mewls. “Fuck you,” he moans, breath shaky when he pulls himself out of you. Your body clenches around air, aches for him to return. 

He does, after he moves you back into the position it all started in. “So close,” he tells you, sinking slowly into you, his sigh hot and alcoholic on your shoulder. His pace is slow, then fast, then slow again. He’s as rapid as his breath is irregular. You better pull out–you groan, every muscle in your body strung out and exhausted and you’re coming again. It’s blinding white behind your closed lids, ears ringing and muscles flexing involuntarily. He’s wrecked you, finally, left you a mumbling mess. 

He pulls out almost in sync with your orgasm, jerks himself no more than twice between your legs before he’s coating your stomach in hot stripes of cum, loud, guttural moans leaving his lips in a way that looks and sounds practically pained. “Christ,” he heaves, watches on as your fingers dance through his orgasm, spreading it over your skin and coating your fingers. You don’t break eye contact when you stick two of them into your mouth, swirl your tongue around them tauntingly, sucking them clean and pulling them from your mouth with a pop. You hold the clean hand up for him to see, palm facing him. When you turn it, you pull down all but your middle finger, flip him off cockily. 

He swats you hand away, “Never fucking again,” he tells you. 

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me,” you scoff. “I never want to see the inside of this apartment again.”

“Why are you here, then?” He remarks, turning the corner into what you assume is the bathroom, tossing a towel to you from across the room. You clean yourself up before anything dries, before coming up with a quick rebuttal. 

You don’t come up with one, mind as tired as the rest of you. This game has been exhausting. “We’re never talking about this,” you say, pulling your dress over your head, stuffing your bra into your handbag because you aren’t sure you have the strength to clasp it closed. “Ever.”

“No shit,” he says, tosses your underwear in the general direction of you. 

You bend over to pick them up, step into them with the snap of the elastic. “Promise me.” You have no idea where your shoes are, but he’s already ushering you out of the room, herding you down the long hall with wide, swooping waves of his arms. 

“I promise.”

“Pinky,” you say, spot your shoes haphazardly stepped out of in the entryway. You don’t have any memory of them ever being on.

“Absolutely not.”

“Charles,” you lean against the wall to slip your heels on, hook up at him with a sober glare. He closes his eyes like you won’t be able to see them roll behind his lids, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints before dropping a heavy breath, holding out a pinky to you. You interlock it with yours. “Thank you.”

He pulls his hand from yours, turns the lock on his front door and swings it open, fingers wrapped around the edge, other hand gesturing out into the hallway. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

“With pleasure,” you say, stepping past him and into the well-lit hallway of sprawling marble floors. You stop in front of the elevator, press the button and wait for his inevitable comment. 

“The whole brat-schtick you’ve got going on isn’t as believable when your leg shakes underneath you,” he calls down the hall. You don’t turn your head to face him, just extend your arm in his direction and flip him off. You hear his chuckle as he latches the door shut behind you. 

Everything about today has been dreary–from the near constant mist that falls over the city, to the chilly temperatures, to the poor excuses for men that grace the screen of your dating app. This is not how Fridays in your twenties are meant to be spent, sulking in the dark of your bedroom after a miserable day at work. 

You’re supposed to be out, partying with friends and making drunken decisions that have you waking up in a stranger’s bed after a good night you hardly remember. 

God, you need to get fucked. It’s been months. Two months and ten days–not that you’re counting. Because you’re not. Counting. You aren’t. 

You’re just restless, basking in the loneliness of the night, unable to shake the weight of your thoughts, of two months and ten days ago. Of Charles and how infuriatingly good he’d made you feel. The complexities of your relationship, the shift in the very DNA of what you know, it makes your heart race–a messy muddle of annoyance and desire that yearns to be untangled. 

You give up on the dating apps, know that even if you do match with someone, there’s nothing that can be done to solve your problem tonight. You opt instead to scroll through social media aimlessly, searching for any distraction from the ache in your gut. Your hand unconsciously slips under the hem of your shirt, cups your breast while you scroll and scroll and scroll. It does little to quell your struggles. In fact, the game is over the moment you become conscious of your hand’s placement, the moment you start to massage your breast, to run your fingers over your nipple until it’s hard and perky. 

You switch to the other breast, fingers gently tracing over the skin, sending chills up your arms, pinpointing the ache in your core. Your hand slides down your stomach, dips below the waistband of your shorts, into your underwear. You’re so worked up–pent up, reaching a boiling point. 

Your middle finger glides through your folds, grazes over your clit, teases the slick at your entrance before dipping in, collecting enough to spread it around. Your clit is swollen, needy like the rest of you, and the pad of your fingers do little to relieve the pressure. Your fingers move clockwise, then counter. Vertical and horizontal and every combination of every direction and even though you can’t remember the last time you were this horny, this desperate to come, you can’t. 

You slip in a finger, and then another, try to find the right curl and the right spot–to no avail. Now, you’re thinking about his fingers, about how much bigger his hands are, how his nimble fingers pumped in and out of you with sheet-gripping, whimper-inducing pace. 

Your phone taunts you, his contact behind the locked screen just waiting to be messaged. 

You try to resist. You hate him. He hates you. God, he knows how to fuck you, though; veiny hands and thick cock leaving you a writhing mess. Fuck. Fuck, why can’t your fingers move the way his did?

You cave, reaching over to grab your phone and text him. Hey. What are you up to tonight? It’s a mistake, you know that it is. He’s so damn annoying, there’s nothing about him that doesn’t drive you up a wall. Frustration makes the heart go fonder, you suppose, or maybe the cunt ache harder. 

Within moments, your phone is buzzing against your palm with his reply. Chilling at home. You coming over?

You roll your eyes. No.

Ok.

You bite your bottom lip so hard you think you might accidentally draw blood. It’s phantom, almost, the way you can so perfectly imagine the sting of him stretching you out, the soreness of his bruising kisses, the swollen, wet head of his dick slapping against your clit. Come over.

You couldn’t pay me.

Door’s unlocked.

Give me 20.

You’re in the bedroom when he knocks. Three times, you wonder why he isn’t just walking in. You ignore the banging, let the universe decide for you if he’s meant to turn back and walk his happy ass out of your building. The universe decides he won’t be doing that, though, because he knocks again. Louder this time. 

You pull yourself out of bed, feet creaking on the hardwood floors as you move to pull the door open. “I told you it was unlocked,” you grumble. 

“Eh,” he shrugs, dumb fucking grin on his face. “Wasn’t up for your games.”

You internally debate just how bad you need him here, if it’s worth all the trouble that is him. It’s not, almost certainly it isn’t. You invite him in anyway. 

“So, what’s the deal? Can’t get yourself off, so you call me?” He teases. Your frustrated blush gives you away before a witty comeback can slap the smirk off his face. “Oh my god,” he chuckles. “I was fucking around, but really?”

There’s no point in trying to lie now, not when your face has already betrayed your trust and revealed the truth. “Calm down,” you groused. “The last thing this world needs if your head to get any fucking bigger.”

He continues laughing like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. You want to smack the smile off his face, dimples and all. “The last thing this world needs is for this–” he gestures between the two of you, “–to become a thing.”

You mock his movements, the dumb look on his face. “This is not a thing. It’s just two friends–”

“–We aren’t friends.”

You sigh through gritted teeth. “Two not friends helping each other out.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, chews on the inside of his cheek while his eyes trace your finger, head to toe and back to head again. “You do know how ridiculous you sound, right?”

You breathe out in resignation, heading down the hall towards your room. “Can we just get on with it?”

“No.”

You stop in your tracks, turn on your heels. What the fuck is he here for, then? “No?” You close the gap between the two of you, plant your hands firmly on either side of his jaw and kiss him, all tongue and spit and rough lips. You knock him off balance, falling out of step when he kisses you back with a matching intensity, hands hovering over your hips. He doesn’t rest them there, you can feel the warmth in the space between your skin and his, the force that pulls you together. 

When he does settle his hands, it’s not to deepen the kiss, to swallow any more frustration. It’s to put distance between your mouths. “I want you to–”

You nibble on his earlobe, cut him off with your hushed words. “I don’t give a fuck what you want, I want–”

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands, voice failing to waiver to your hushed level, an air of snugness to him.

“Charles,” your voice cracks with his name, a hint of your under the surface insecurity peeking through, putting themselves on display for him. Here! Here! Look at me! 

“Show me, or I’m leaving,” he says, and it’s all throaty and husky. 

(Eleven minutes later)

Legs spread for him, two fingers moving busily against your core, circling your clit, teasing your hole. 

He stares at you like he can see your fucking soul, watches from his spot across the room, leant against the old wooden dresser, arms folded and ankles crossed. You stare back–harder, maybe–like if you win the little contest your cheeks won’t burn so bright, you won’t feel so exposed, so vulnerable, so embarrassed. 

Those feelings fade, they do, with each flick of your wrist. With every glance of his hungry eyes to your fingers, to your cunt, tracing their way up and down your body, you feel calmer and calmer. And when he runs his hand over his mouth, along the stubble of his jaw and off his chin, you’re closer and closer. 

It pulls whimpers, soft and slow and sweet, from your lips. There’s a sick thrill to it, to him seeing her like this, all needy and open and sensitive. It’s empowering, almost. 

He breaks no more than twice, watches every brow quirk, lid flutter, and lip twitch with raw, intimate eyes. He’s less interested in what you do to yourself, the curve of your fingers or the noises they create, than he is in the way you react to the movements. 

“You’re not even fucking watching,” you say, the letter sounds falling to your breath, hitching as your fingers angle just right. 

“Watching what matters.”

“Oh? And, uh–” you huff. “What’s that?”

He laughs, dimples digging deep into his cheeks. You’ve always thought they made his smile so childish, like you can’t take anything seriously when it comes from someone with primary-school dimples and giddy eyes. You don’t struggle to take it seriously, now. “You’re thinking about me.”

Your eyes flutter shut, a soft sigh parting your lips. “Says who?”

He pushes himself off the dresser, saunters over with heavy feet, stopping at the foot of the bed. “What are you thinking about?” He humors. 

Your eyes roll. You’re thinking about a lot of things. Half a dozen, atleast. About your fingers, the way they move against your swollen cunt, sticky with creamy slick, and how his fingers are that much longer than yours. About how loud he walks, how his heavy feet stand at the end of your bed, crossed arms that pull his t-shirt tight across his chest. About the fact that you’re not sure you locked the door behind him because you were so distracted by the way his sweatpants hung from his waist. About how he doesn’t bother to adjust or hide the protruding bulge under the fabric right now. About the curve of his cock, about how pathetic and full it makes you, utterly unable to spend time thinking about anything but how well he stretches you out. About his hair, flat and straight and wholly unstyled, how your hands would mess it up so nicely, tug and twist until he has something smart to say. Beyond frustratingly, he’s right. As you quickly approach a high, breath quickened and movements desperate, all you’re thinking about is him. “Things.”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ever the rake, unsatisfied with your response. 

You add a third finger, steady pace and a held stare. The muscles in your leg twitch. You’re so fucking close. “What are you thinking about?”

He sways, rocks his weight from his left foot to the right, runs his tongue over his teeth. “Things.”

A coy smile upturns the corner of your lips. “Mmhmm,” you mock. 

He moves around the bed, trails his fingers over your skin; from your ankle, along the bone of your shin, a bruise on your knee. They stall on your thigh, trace small, soft circles on the inside of your leg. “You really want to know?” 

He’s such a tease, keeps moving up, up, up, over your stomach and through the valley of your breast. “I–ah– I,” you stutter through your words, fingers working tirelessly to push you over the edge. Restless, further irritated by his delicate touch, his fingers up to your jaw now, slotting themselves there, you nod. “Yes.” 

He leans over you, your lips inches apart, open and hot breathed. “Too bad,” he whispers into the space between, closing the gap and kissing you with an insatiable kind of fervor. Your fingers still, your other hand reaching to grip the back of his neck, to pull him deeper into the kiss. It’s a kiss that’s half as good as the sex, the breaking of the unbearable tension that’s filled the room while he’s watched, the promise of what’s to come. A lustful implication. His hand leaves your jaw when you pull apart for air, moving over your stilled hand. “Let me?” He asks, and it doesn’t feel like much of a question, the way he’s already slipping his fingers under yours before you can even squeak out an answer. 

There’s something entirely different about his fingers, like the way that you can’t tickle yourself. You can’t predict his moves, every movement of every ridge of his fingerprints is something entirely surprising. “Yeah, fuck, you make, ah, make yourself…” You give up on the sentence, your body failing your mind in its ability to spit out a comeback. Yeah, you wish you could tell him. Yeah, make yourself fucking useful.  

He laughs, slides his long middle finger inside you, pumps it twice and slips in another. You gasp at his sudden movement. “You’re embarrassing yourself, baby.”

Your back arches off the sheets. “Don’t call me that,” you seethe. 

“But,” he curls his fingers against the spot you’ve been trying to reach all night. A moan tumbles from your mouth and he smirks. “It makes my job so easy.”

“Fuck you.”

“I was going to let you come first, but,” he chuckles. He’s so proud of himself it makes you ill. “If you insist.” 

His hand stills, threatens to pull out of you entirely, but you’re covering it with your own, holding him there when you look up, hips instinctively grinding against him. “I’ll kill you. I will.” 

You’re pushing him out of your apartment by the end of night, locking the door behind him. Your leg shakes when you slide down the door onto the floor. This is the last time, it has to be. Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence. Thrice. Thrice would be a pattern. You won’t let it become a pattern. 

You wake up at seven-thirty and your hair is still in knots, your body still aching from him. You find a new bruise every time you look in the mirror. You can’t shake the image of his messy hair, of the feeling of the brown locks between your fingers and the sound he’d make when you’d tug on them. 

It won’t be happening again.

Mix ‘n’ Match

A/N: This section is definitely going to be expanded upon so I thought I might as well make a masterlist for it :)

Side note: I guess you could call these poly!fics? They’re pretty enjoyable to write, so I’ll be steadily adding to this!

Feysand:

Beg For It[***]

Tag, You’re It[***] | -Part 2[***]- | -Part 3[***]-

Drunken Mistakes[*] | Drunken Promises[***] | Drunken Confessions[***]

Girls Night

Bloodied Wedding Bonds[***]

Take A Hit[*]

All Wrapped in One[*]

Dizzying Kisses[*]

Nessian:

Punishment[*]

Good Things Come In Threes | -Part 2[*]-

Elriel:

Blossom[*]

Amarantha x reader x Rhysand:

Big, Bad Wolf[*]

Crimson Delights[*]

Viviane x reader x Mor:

Blue Flower, Red Thorns[*]

Amarantha x reader x Feyre:

Persuasion[*]

Poly Batboys:

Pleasure over Morals[***]

Mercy, Devil | -Part 2- | -Part 3-

before the corn grows.

Piercings[*]

Azriel x reader x Cassian:

Puttin’ On The Ritz[*] (to be written)

Mor x reader x Elain:

Pretty Flower Garden[*]

Azriel x Reader | The Beauty of Intimacy

type: smut (& a bit of angst) warning(s): explicit descriptions, curse words, mature language word count: 3.1k words

request: Hi could you write some thing where reader and azriel have been in a relationship for a little bit but whenever azriel tries to like do anything with her she brushed him off and be begins to think she’s not attracted to him but then she tells him that it’s because she’s never really had a positive experience with sex and so azriel shows her how amazing sex with him can be and like just worships her??? Srry this is so specific but I love your writing and would love to read this!!

- all rights reserved -

"Is it because of the scars?" Azriel’s demeanour is solemn, his shadows calm, his eyes empty, sad.

A small crack appears in your heart and you quickly lift your gaze to meet your lover’s. "No," you say. "No, of course not."

Crossing one leg behind the ankle of the other Azriel leans his shoulder against the doorframe. Then his head, and his eyes close for a long moment. 

"What is it then? Y/N, please tell me." He is almost begging you to be honest with him, his tone desperate. As desperate as all his attempts for the two of you to be intimate have been. It isn't that you don’t want to sleep with him. It is way more complicated. You have never found pleasure during sex, you have never had one single positive experience and at this point you think it is because of you. Yes, you blame this lack of sensual heights on yourself. Maybe you simply cannot enjoy it? Maybe you do something wrong? Maybe there is something wrong with you?

"I thought you weren’t a virgin. Did you not tell the truth when we talked about our past? Are you scared? Nervous?” Azriel asks and blinks his eyes open. "I don’t care at all, we can go slow. But please, just tell if it has something to do with me. If it is about me. Are you not attracted to me? Not sexually attracted?"

Gods, you are. There is no male who is only half as beautiful as Azriel, and you are more than attracted to him. 

"I am no virgin and that is not the problem—"

"Then what is the problem? I don’t want to push you. I don’t want to force you to have sex with me, but I would like to understand. That is all. I just want to understand," Azriel says, his voice turning softer and gentler. He pushes off the wall and slowly makes his way over to the bed you sit on.

His throat burns when his mouth parts to ask one last question. "Did someone hurt you? Did someone touch when you didn’t want it? You can be honest with me. Always."

You love Azriel so much. And especially for that. For how good his heart is, how thoughtful he is, how understanding.

Sliding your hands over his, you draw in a deep breath and give your head a shake. "No. Thank you for asking, but no." Azriel exhales a shuddering breath of relief.

Leaning forward, you let one hand slide up his arm to his neck, you lips meeting his in a soft and quick kiss. "I just don’t like…sex."

"Sex is something beautiful," Azriel says and a sheepish smile blooms on his face.

The corner of your own mouth moves up at how adorable he looks. "Is it?” You raise your brow.

Azriel nods his head frantically and places his thumb under your chin, tipping it up. "One oft the most beautiful things in this world, I might say." His eyes have turned darker, the shadows becoming alive around his figure. The shadowsinger’s posture changes from formerly rather reserved to confident and he rolls back his shoulders, sitting straighter now. Your eyes meet, and warmth fills your body.

Nervousness coats your insides, your skin prickling. "I am not sure if I am…capable of having sex. Good sex, I mean. There is not one positive experience I have made and I am over 500, Azriel. It must have something to do with me."

A low chuckle leaves the shadowsinger and he gives his head a tiny shake, silken strands of onyx hair shifting with movement. "There is nothing wrong with you, I am 100% positive about that."

You love his certainty, but you can’t quite agree with him.

"Why don’t I find it… pleasurable then?"

"Because you may have not yet been with the right male," Azriel says, his brow lifting in an almost cocky way. It is this slight arrogance that changes his demeanour that makes your toes curl and the hair on his body stand. 

Your voice becomes a breathy whisper when you feel a shadow dance over your bare thigh and you lean forward. "And now I am?"

His low chuckle reverberates through you, his lips brushing yours and tingling them with the vibrations of his laugh. Azriel pecks you shortly and then says against your lips, "Now you are."

You change your sitting position, stretching your legs. ”And you are going to convince me now that it is something enjoyable?"

The shadowsinger’s scarred hand smoothes up your foot, higher onto your leg and back down again. He lifts his gaze to yours and smirks. "I going to prove to you that sex is one of the most beautiful things in the world," he drawls, his index finger circling your ankle. "Only if you want that, of course."

Wet heat fills your body when you draw in a deep breath and bow your head. "I want that."

You really want to. You want it to be good. You want for yourself to enjoy it. You have faith— Azriel is a phenomenal male, he would do it right, would make you feel right. This is going to be good, Azriel is different to the males before him, he has already proven that many times.

His fingers curl around your ankle and he lifts your leg, carefully sliding closer to you and placing your leg over his lap, your other one behind his back. Azriel regards you, silently assessing you.

"So you’ve never come then?"

"Obviously," you whisper and avert your gaze when heat flushes your cheeks. Azriel’s fingers continue their exploration, dancing over your knee up to your thigh. The spymaster draws idle circles to the sensitive skin of your inner thighs which already makes you want to squeeze them together. "Never made yourself come either?"

You could practically the warmth radiating from your cheeks. "I think…I have."

"Thinking about me?"

Biting down on your lower lip you nod.

"That’s a good girl."

His praise almost has you squirming. Gods, you haven’t known that you would like that. But something about the way he said it, the deep tenor of his voice reverberating through your body, did something to you.

His hand giving your thigh a gentle squeeze, Azriel leans into you, damp lips coasting over your ear. "I should have known you like that. Should have known my lovely lady likes to be praised for the things she does so well." His lips curl when he pecks the pointy end of your ear, chuckling softly.

“Well, “Azriel drawls, his scarred hands slowly sliding over your skin, the calluses rough against it. "Lean back against the head board," the shadowsinger orders, his voice commanding yet soft.

You do as told, nestling between the pillows and behaving like his good girl. But there is still this teeny-tiny kernel of nervousness in you — what if not even Azriel can make you reach your height? What if it truly is something about your body and he just tries to be nice?

The shadowsinger must have noticed your unease, his smile faltering, happiness slowly fading.

Azriel swipes his thumb over your cheek. "I really want you to know that," Azriel says, his eyes piercing into yours, "you not finding pleasure has nothing to do with you. It is generally more difficult for females to reach their height, but if the male does everything right and takes proper care of their lover it most definitely should work. It has nothing to do with you, you can trust me on that."

Relief truly starts blossoms in your chest at that, the corners of your mouth tipping upwards. You slowly dip your chin and smile.

"I trust you on that."

A low but content growl leaves Azriel at that and he hooks his scarred hands under your knee pits, bracing your feet on the bed and easing your thighs apart. Your nightgown pools at your hips, Azriel’s gaze dropping to your centre. He leans closer and pecks your bent knee before his gaze lifts to yours. "Now," he drawls, "let me worship you. Let me show you how beautiful intimacy can be."

The shadowsinger’s damp lips brush down the inside of your thigh, his silken strands toppling over his forehead and tingling your skin. A strangled sound leaves you when a throbbing feeling starts in your core and you desperately want to squeeze your thighs together. Azriel’s grip is tight, holding your legs spread open. He tips his head back, a brow raising when your gazes met. "Uh-oh."

His tongue poking out he gives your inner thigh a soft lick, descending, savouring your sweet skin. Damp heat pools in your core, soft, quick pants leaving you when your lids start to feel heavy. Your knuckles turn white from how tightly you hold onto the pillows next to you, watching Azriel dip his head between your thighs. Azriel’s nose brushes against your still in undergarments covered core, adding just a light pressure that has you squirming.

The spymaster’s voice is a soft growl, the deep tenor rumbling through you when he says, "Lift your hips, beautiful." Azriel steadies you, helping you, and curls his fingers around the elastic, slowly peeling the undergarment off.

His desire stretches out, making it impossible for you to breathe when his heated gaze lands on the spot between your thighs. A low groan leaves Azriel, the sound so raw and primal it has you turning even more molten, your legs shaking slightly.

He leans into you and kisses your sex. You shudder, never having felt…anything like that.

The shadowsinger inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal beguiling. The strong tendons of his throat stand out when he clenches his jaw, his pupils dilating even more.

Azriel’s throat works on a swallow, his tongue feeling so thick all of a sudden when he says, "Ever been tasted before?"

The heated honey of his eyes meets yours, his need and desire laced into his features. You give your head a tiny shake, holding his gaze. His want, his need, his desire, it does something to you. To your heart. To your core. 

"Good," Azriel purrs and dips his head. He kisses your lower belly, tongue circling your navel, hands skimming over your thighs, before finally lifting them over his shoulders. "Perfect," he breaths, his mouth moving lower. Shadows softly travel up your body when Azriel parts you with his thumbs. It is the first stroke of his tongue, the first broad stroke through your silken folds up to the apex of your thighs, that has you squirming. Your back arches, your hips lift, pressing against his face when a lewd gasp leaves you. 

It is the firm grip of his scarred hands that places you back on the bed, that holds you tightly, that limits your movements. Azriel chuckles lowly, sending vibrations and hot air right into your core. You squirm against him and the shadowsinger tips his head back only an inch. “Sshh,” he cooes, grinning, his lips glistening. “Relax and let me worship you probably. Let me devour you, beautiful.” You get no chance to answer, his head dips again, his tongue poking out and he flicks it against your clit. And then he feasts, his tongue driving deep into. He licks and suckles, holding you firmly, the sounds that leave his mouth feeling like a sin in your ears. Azriel is like a starved male, some primal need fully unleashed, his restraints gone. You wreathe underneath him, something in your lower body squeezing, your walls clenching. It feels so good, it feels…nearly overwhelming. Your eyes roll back and then your orgasm comes crashing in on you. Wave after of hot pleasure overflows you, washes you under. You come with a scream that is a mix of curses and his name. Azriel.

He lets you ride out your height, softly guiding you through it, his tongue and lips still sloppily licking and kissing your sex. Proud at his work and your absolutely disheveled state, Azriel flashes you a full toothy grin when he lifts his head, his face wet with your arousal, with your release. 

Having made you come one time is obviously not enough for the spymaster. Just seconds later you are fully underneath his tall figure. He has only given you a short glimpse at his marvellous body before climbing onto the bed and caging you beneath him.

 Azriel flicks his tongue over the hardened peak of your breast, marvelling at how you shudder underneath him. His lips close around your nipple, licking, suckling. 

“More?” Azriel breathes against your breast. Your hips give a little jerk, moving against Azriel who growls in approval, reveling into the feel of your skin against his. You sigh and dip your chin. 

“Words, sweetheart. Use your words.” 

The shadowsinger takes your nipple back into his mouth, suckling and tugging lightly. It has you squirming and making your unable to form a coherent sentence. 

“Yes, more. Please, don’t stop,” you almost whine, burying your hands in his silken strands. 

“Good girl,” Azriel drawls, pushing himself up on his hands and looking down at you. With something like a predatory gaze he watches you, marveling at the sight of your ruffled hair, the flushed cheeks, the need and desire in your eyes. All he can think is that you are stunning and fully his. 

“Let me make you feel good.” The shadowsinger pushes your thighs apart, settling between them. “I need you to be my good girl again. You want that, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes,” you breathe. His hand reaches down between your bodies and he adjusts himself between your thighs. He lets the tip of his hard cock slide into you. It has you both gasping. Both of you look down at where you are connected. Azriel’s lips part in a silent hiss. “Fucking hell.” He carefully slides further into you, letting you adjust, but at the same time making you feel every glorious inch of his proud length. He leans in, softly brushing his lips against yours. “Tell me if I hurt you. Tell me when you want me to stop.”

Your hands find its place in the hair at the back of his neck the moment your lips close over his. “I will,” you whisper, “but it is perfect.”

Azriel’s lips curl against yours when he moves in to the hilt, stilling inside of you. You angle your hips, gasping at the sudden spark of pleasure when his tip touches one special spot inside of you. “Move, please,” you breathe and Azriel captures your lips, slowly pulling out of you.

He kisses you softly, one hand moving over your lower belly, gently adding pressure. You pull your legs up, curling them around his waist and moan at the feeling of it. Gods, this is perfect. This whole situation is pure satisfaction. And gods, you can enjoy it. It feels good. It is good. 

The shadowsinger has you pinned beneath him, his tall body, covered in a thin film of sweat, hovering above you, him moving inside of you, filling you so perfectly.

He lets go of his restraints, his thrusts turning deeper, harder. He pounds into you, always making sure you feel good and that you enjoy what he is doing. 

“Tell me how good you feel,” Azriel whispers when his lips close over your ear lob and he gives you a tiny bite. Azriel knows he is good at what he is doing. And this confidence, gods, it turns you on. You love it when he is like that, cocky and confident. “So good,” you breathe through gritted teeth, your head thrown back, your eyes squeezed closed, his hips slapping against yours. The sounds are wet, your high-pitched moans and pants the only things that are louder. 

Azriel regards you, your figure, how beautiful you look underneath him, with him inside you. And he feels you getting closer, you clench around him and that feeling, gods! It brings himself closer and closer to edge as well. 

The spymaster decreases his pace, slowly, steadily moving in and out of you. His thrusts are long and coordinated now. A lewd sob parts your lips, your eyes only opening for a split second. Calluses scrape over your soft skin when Azriel’s hand slides up your body, cradling your face. He lowers his forehead to yours, exhaling warm air that feels like a summer breeze against your skin.

"You" -thrust- "are" -thrust- "so perfect."

Your back arches, pressing against the solid body of your lover, your mouths meeting in a sloppy brush of tongues, and lips. Azriel’s stomach flexes, cock twitching and balls tightening. He knows he his close, wants you to come with him. 

Azriel nips at your jaw, his thumb circling your clit, rubbing, adding extra pleasure that brings you closer to edge. You clench around him, rocking against him when a lewd cry breaks through the noises of your panting and moaning.

"Gods," you pant. "I am close, Azriel."

He doesn’t want to make you beg, does not want to torture you, edge you. He wants you to come, to fully enjoy this moment.

"Let go, angel," Azriel says and angels his hips differently to hit that damnable spot inside of you with each thrust.

Your pants come out quicker, your moans turning a pitch higher. You claw at his shoulders, flecks of white and black sparking in your vision when your eyes roll back. 

 You come simultaneously, a loud sob leaving you when a tidal wave of satisfaction washes over you. The shadowsinger trembles above you, his warm release spurting against your walls, his forehead dropping to yours. Your hips rock against each other with sloppy thrusts, riding out your heights together. 

After easing out of you, Azriel collects a wet cloth for you to clean up. He kisses your forehead, his clothed hand carefully sliding between your thighs and over your lower belly. You are still in a blissful steady, knees feeling wobbly, legs numb. Soft pants leave you while your eyes follow your lover until he disappears into the bathroom. You fold a hand over your forehead, grinning to yourself and exhaling loudly. Gods! Love making was good, was enjoyable, was something you wanted more of. And you were were also a tiny bit relieved—there was nothing wrong about you. It was not your fault that you did not enjoy the times before. 

Getting back into bed, Azriel brings you close to his body, wings stretched behind his broad shoulders. You rest your head on his chest, hand placed right above his heart. 

Azriel brings your leg over his hips, holding your thigh tightly. “Could I convince you that sex is not so bad?”

You wiggle your head, mischief glinting in your eyes when you met his gaze. “I believe I definitely need some more convincing.” Azriel’s whole-hearted laugh is like balm to your soul. He cradles you to his body, kissing the top of your head, smiling. “I love you and don’t worry,” Azriel mumbles into your hair, giving your rear a soft smack. “You will get a lot more.”

Feedback and critics are always welcome, as I still try to improve my writing. Please let me know what you think 💙

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

tag list (crossed-out I couldn't tag):

@juulle987 @marimorena06 @danikasthings @younxii @nightcourtwritings @mrofontaine @lunalilyf @whor-3-crux @tired-all-the-time @anni-was-here @ummmmmwat @azbracadabra @j-pendragonx @hollyismentallyillhelp @famousbasementpainter @bsenpai @lena-davina @red-highlady @thesugatoyourtae @azrielsbitxh @cityofidek @moony-thoughts @wrensical003 @cherryjain17 @moonfawnx @crushedcloudsx @devilsfoodcake22 @valeriedarkness @azrielscertifiedslut @mulansaucey @cynicalpotato95 @hanasakr @high-bi-andreadytocry @eerievixen @feyretopia @moonlightazriel @randomness-it-is @brekkershadowsinger @eliieee23 @girasoli-e-sorrisi @illyrianvalkyriecarynthian @whorefortim

Amy's Masterlist

Finally got around to make a masterlist! If you notice any links to be wrong, please let me know! (There is more under the cut, it just took up too much space)

Poly!Marauders

Teach us, part one. Part two. No, like this. Mommy & Daddy punish their babies. Remus lets his friends "dom" their mommy.

No cocks in cunts (reader doesn't like penetration – continuation).

Waterfalls.

A good morning.

Reader gets punished for not following the rules.

Drunk reader not getting what she wants, part one. Part two.

Reader doesn't like penetration (blurb).

Subspace/First time.

Reader doesn't like blowjobs (blurb).

Reader is jealous of Lily (fluff), part one. Part two.

Thighfucking.

First time.

Needy reader.

Bukkake.

James Potter

NSFW Alphabet.

Jegulus - Lingere.

Sub!Jamie - Praise.

Unwind - x Reader

Sirius Black

NSFW Alphabet.

Remus Lupin

NSFW Alphabet.

Wolfstar

Frottage.

Rimming.

Kinkmas 2023.

Everyone lives - AU, not x reader.

Chasing Starlight: Chapter 19

Pairing: Poly!Feysand x female!Reader

Summary: After Nyx’s birth, Feyre is seeking to ease her way back into her duties as High Lady and balance her time at the gallery with being a new mother. To ease her mind, she and Rhys have decided to hire a new nanny, who turns out to be far more than either of them had bargained for.

When I wake again, it’s with a steady roaring in my ears and a mind-numbing ache just behind my eyes.

I want to cry, but my stomach immediately rebels against the idea with a wave of nausea so severe I have to clench my teeth against it. I roll onto my side, curling as tightly as I can into a ball to wait for it to pass. A soft, cool hand presses against my forehead, the side of my face, and some of the nausea eases a little, just enough for me to ease my eyes open.

All I can see is the clear, cool blue of Feyre’s eyes. I drag my next breath in through my teeth in an attempt to stifle the ragged sob that tears itself from my throat anyway. The tears leaking down my cheeks are too hot and pitiful in a way that might make me resent them, if only I weren’t so exhausted. I feel like I took a tumble down the side of a mountain, from the way every muscle in my body burns.

“Oh, my dove,” she whispers, running her thumb over my cheek the way she might soothe Nyx after a bad night. “You’ll feel better soon.”

“Hurts,” I whimper, closing my burning eyes once more. Two brief, timid knocks at the bedroom door draw a deep, guttural snarl from my mate I’ve not heard before, and I reach for that unclaimed mating bond on instinct. It feels so thin and fragile, like it might rip if I tug too hard, but I don’t have the time to be gentle with it. I feel her cool, quick hands slipping beneath me, lifting my body like I weigh no more than the bird that’s become my namesake. I sag against her, shuddering with relief at the feeling of her skin on mine.

The contact doesn’t eliminate the pain, but it does help alleviate the ache in my chest. I bury my nose in her neck and inhale her lilac and pear scent, letting it sink in like a balm. She wasn’t here when I woke the first time, neither was Rhys, but I hadn’t truly been able to think of them then, to let myself worry. Not when the instinct to check on the babe was driving me so much harder. But now?

“Where’s Rhys?” I croak, trying to lift my head. It feels like there’s fire coursing through my veins instead of blood, and everything is so heavy. It hurts to move, to breathe.

“He’ll be home soon, love.”

“And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, everyone else is fine.” There are two more knocks at the door, louder this time before the door swings open, and a sudden burst of raw power shakes the foundation of the house on the heels of Feyre’s furious snarl. The scent of her raw magic is overwhelming, a tempest of icy shadows and seawater and starlight that sets jagged claws into something deep within my mind and pulls, as if to rip it from me. I scream, and I don’t know if it’s from the shock of it or the pain that rolls through my mind like a protective barrier, but it comes with an agony I have not known before.

The roar in my ears swells, its pitch sharpening as my vision bleeds to white, and the last thing I feel is the lip of a cold, glass bottle being shoved between my lips before everything is blissfully blank once more.

I’m lost in that wine-dark sea again, but this time there is no starlight to keep me company. There is only the cold and the darkness threatening to devour me. I twist between the waves, looking everywhere for a source of light, a thread to follow home but there’s nothing. Nothing. I don’t know how I’m supposed to exist in this endless expanse of nothing.

Perhaps this is simply a battle I’m not meant to win.

I allow the current to take me, to pull me down deeper until I come to rest on something soft that folds up around me like a cocoon. Whispers of safe flow around me in a voice so similar to my mother’s that I almost look around for her. Safe, safe, safe. She’d always been trying to protect me, hadn’t she? When I was little, she’d warn me not to run too far or climb too high. In most of my memories, she’s always hovering on the periphery, watching with pursed lips and shaking hands.

I hadn’t understood her fear then, not even when I began work as a nanny did I understand it. Now I think I might.

“You always do once you have babes of your own,” my mother’s voice says, echoing through the darkness around me like a siren’s call. “They show you how vulnerable you are, how fragile life can be. It’s easy to know fear once you are a mother.”

“I am not a mother,” I reply, fighting the rising tide of bitterness I have always refused to allow to overtake me. Images of Nyx come to me in waves, memories of his gummy smile and vibrant twilight blue eyes, but I bat them away with a lump in my throat. It’s true, I don’t believe I would love him more if I’d given birth to him, but I’m not his mother. “I never will be.”

“How definitive that word is,” the voice muses. “Never. It leaves no room for chance or miracles, there’s no possibility in the face of never. Isn’t that lonely, love?”

“Lonely?” The laugh breaks from me before I can swallow it: a cold, hollow thing, a reflection of a wound I’ve nursed in silence for many years. “I am alone, I have been alone for so long that I don’t know how to be anything else. I found my mates, my mates, most High Fae don’t ever dream of meeting their own and I have two that I don’t know how to love.”

“You know how to love, little fox. Your heart has always been much too large to be contained, you spill a little of it everywhere you go-”

“That may have been true once,” I acknowledge, curling in on myself, “then my family burned around me, and someone told me to run so I did. I ran as fast and as far as I could get, and I swore I’d never lose anyone else. And I haven’t. You can’t lose people you don’t love, and I haven’t truly loved anyone until-”

Until now. The darkness bearing my mother’s voice is mercifully silent, leaving me there in the dark and the cold to think and to grieve. I had a family once, I had a father and brothers- no, that had been a lie, hadn’t it? I’d had a mother, though, a mother who had sacrificed everything she had to hide me. If I think about her long enough, I can remember the sense of illness and exhaustion that clung to her like so much sludge, weighing her down in spite of her spirit and her work ethic. It had chased her to her grave, hadn’t it? I’d never questioned the sickness as a child, she’d been a healer, I thought…but the image of her staring at me from Eris’s side burns so clearly before me, of him feeding me the potion that would bind my magic for centuries. How much of her own magic that must have taken, to create a spell- no, a curse that would render me nearly useless for the entirety of my life.

Powerless, docile, a threat to no one.

Who could I possibly have been such a threat to that I needed to be hidden away? With only a trickle of healing magic…a trickle I have not touched in a very long time. Magic poisoning had been one of the first lessons we learned as novice healers; our magic is as intrinsic to us as the blood flowing through our veins, we are taught never to neglect it for a reason. Is this…is this my fault, did I do this? I hold up my hand and try to summon it, to draw even the slightest bead of magic, but all that rushes forward is a burning ache that is quickly smothered by the cold, merciful darkness.

A darkness so unlike the one I’ve been stranded in, one that glimmers with hints of starlight. It floods into the space, too expansive to be contained. Whatever had wrapped itself around me flakes away on a cool, pine-kissed breeze, and the stars burst to life in its absence.

“There you are.” This voice is dark and rich, so lovely I want to weep, and it’s close. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“Rhys?” I ask, rising onto my knees as I search for him in the starlight. “Are you here? I can’t see you.”

Please don’t let this be all there is of him, please don’t let this be a cruel trick of my memory, please I…I don’t want to be left alone anymore. I’m tired of the endless darkness and searching. I want to live, I want to be happy, I…I don’t want to die here, cold and alone. I want to live.

“I’m right here,” the voice whispers in my ear, and it comes with strong arms that pull me flush against a warm, familiar body until I’m surrounded by the scents of citrus and lilac and something like an orchard in the rain. “You’re not alone, darling, we’d never leave you alone. We’re right here, you’re safe.”

“Am I? I feel so sick, Rhys, I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

“We’re figuring it out, dove, I promise. Mor retrieved a healer from Dawn, one of Thesan’s best, and she's working with Madja on a cure. None of us have seen magic poisoning that behaves like this before, it’s hard to treat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Typically, you would want to drain the excess magic off in some way, your body should want to release it. But with yours, there’s a sort of substance coating it, like an oil. Every time there’s an attempt to drain off your magic, it surges forward and creates a barrier-”

“Just as my mother intended,” I muse, running my fingertips along the arm wrapped around my shoulders. Instead of soft skin, I’m surprised to feel smooth scales and downy feathers, something more akin to a beast than the male I’ve been sharing a bed with. But he’s warm and he smells the same, so I suppose the presentation doesn’t matter much.

“What do you mean?” He asks slowly, carefully, like perhaps he might be afraid of where this answer will lead us. Maybe I should be as well. “Dove?”

I deliberate for a moment, weighing the words carefully in my mind, then the back of a cold talon trails down the side of my face and that’s all it takes for me to tell him everything. From falling stars to the dark cabin hidden away in the forests of Autumn, it sounds like little more than a fever dream, but I know what I saw; I even told him about the ball of light that led me there and the vial I drank from that tasted like the heart of a storm. Rhys listens to my story in complete silence, and once it’s done we watch the stars dance around us the way we had that night in the tub. I wish we could do this every night, and when I say as much he simply holds me tighter.

“We can,” he says quietly. “We can, every night, once we get out of here-”

“Can’t we stay?” I ask, resting my heavy head against his arm. “It’s so peaceful here.”

“No, darling, we can’t. No one else can get here, not even Feyre. This place is very deep within your mind, it’s not safe for you to have other people here.”

“But you’re here.”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time, you know. Almost as long as I’ve been alive. The mind has a myriad of ways it can present: some are fortresses, others are more akin to open fields with rabbit warrens to hide their secrets. None of them are impossible to navigate if you know what to look for and where to apply pressure. You’ve been swimming through an ocean into dark chasms designed to swallow you up, little dove, but that’s not what your mind chose to show me.”

“What does it look like to you?”

“Our home, filled with books and portraits of your memories. Everywhere I looked had little traces of you: the faintest whiff of your scent like you just left the room, or a blanket on the couch that was still warm. All good signs that you were still there, if I could figure out where to look. But the further I walked, the colder it got, and it felt like I was walking into rooms you hadn’t touched in years. There were cobwebs and dust covering the books, and all of the portraits were so faded I could barely make sense of them. I thought to go back and start at the beginning, then I heard your voice on the other side of a door I hadn’t noticed, tucked away behind some stairs. Did you have a door like that growing up?”

“I don’t remember,” I croak. My voice is harder to summon than it had been before. “There’s a lot of my life I don’t remember, Rhys, and I don’t even know if forgetting is a choice I made anymore.”

The stars are beginning to wink out one by one, taking whatever warmth they brought with them as they go. It feels like a warning.

“I don’t know, love, we can try to find out. You have to come with me, though. We need to leave.”

“I’m too tired. Just go, I’ll come later-”

“If you stay here, you will die. This place is the deepest part of your mind, but it isn’t safe for you to stay for long, and it sounds like you’ve spent quite a bit of time here already.” His words are gentle, but the urgency in them feels like a shock to something vital within me, and I lift my head from his arm. It feels too heavy to hold up, but I fight the urge to lay it back down. “Let me take you back with me, love, let me take you home. Feyre and Nyx are there, they miss you. Don’t you want to see them?”

“I do,” I mumble, and he lifts me into his arms like it’s as easy as breathing. Perhaps for him it is, I don’t know, but when he carries me through the door he’d described, I feel the weight of my body crashing into me again. The pain is absolutely unbearable. I don’t know when I begin screaming, but it tells me that I’m still alive. Another bottle is poised at my lips and I suck the contents down willingly, hoping it will put an end to the fire coursing through my veins.

The burning goes on and on until the potion works through my bloodstream, cooling everything it touches like a minty kiss. The moment my tight, aching muscles relax and I can take a true breath, I become aware of the cool rag against my brow, delicately dabbing away the sweat with the care one might give a precious crystal vase. Lilac and pear carried on a night breeze, those are the scents that flood my senses. My mates, both of them, are here with me. I’m not alone.

You will not be alone, sweetheart. Feyre’s voice wraps around my mind like a blanket of thin silk, and I hum, gingerly shifting onto my side, making sure I’m comfortably settled before I allow my eyes to flutter open. There’s no light beyond the open windows, another day gone. How many days have I missed? The sheets beneath me are cool and clean, and the linen nightgown is new. The air filtering into the room is cold and refreshing, tinged with the first brush of winter’s chill. “Hi, baby.”

“Hi,” I mumble, focusing first on the pale, tattooed hand smoothing my hair back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Mmhh,” I groan, shaking my head. “Not…not great, but better.”

“Better is good,” Feyre says weakly and I follow the line of her arm to gaze up at her lovely, angular face. Her pursed lips are pale and bitten, the slope of her shoulders seem to bear the weight of the world on them. I wriggle and flail until she realizes what I’m doing and helps me to sit up, reclined against a pile of pillows. Even this small shift feels like it was a great effort, but I think I’ve slept enough. I run my hand along Feyre’s arm until it rests on the curve of her neck. I can feel her pulse beneath my fingers, strong and steady.

“What did the healer say?”

“Don’t worry about it now.” Her words are gentle, intended to ease my anxiety, but I shake my head slowly. I need to know. “We sent word to Helion, he’s coming in a few days to see if he can help Rhys break the spell binding your magic, from there…from there, we can see how much of the internal damage is permanent. For now, you will rest and drink the potions the healers bring.”

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” I murmur as my hand falls back to my lap. “You may want to reach out to Eris, he was there when it happened.”

“Eris?” she asks slowly, her nose wrinkling as she turns the information over in her mind. “I didn’t think he was capable of magic like that.”

“He’s not, my mother was. I don’t know the nature of their relationship, not really, but I saw…I don’t know what I saw. I’d like the opportunity to ask him about it, though. He should have some of the answers we’ll need and, more than that, there are things I think I…I think I need to know.” What their relationship was, what they saw in me as a newborn that was so dangerous it needed to be hidden so thoroughly, who my…who my father truly is. I think of the male who raised me, the brothers who had not truly been my brothers, and my heart aches at the elaborate lie they’d all agreed to tell.

I need to know why.

“Will you tell me about it when you’re ready?” Feyre’s fingers trail down the side of my face and I look back to her, nodding slowly. Vague wisps of memories of the night this mess began floated through my mind, and I think of the cold, terrible fog that had flooded over the house and pressed against the glass like it was searching for a way in.

“Feyre?”

“Yes, love?”

“That fog…” I stop speaking when her face darkens and reach for her hand instead.

“It was terrible, dove, but Rhysand and Azriel have the matter in hand. It took us a while to pinpoint the source, but the protective shield around the city activated to keep it contained, so there weren’t…issues beyond the city walls. It was an old magic that hasn’t been seen since the disappearance of the Dusk Court being wielded by someone it was never meant to come to. Admittedly, I don’t know much about it, Rhys has been overseeing the interrogation while I’ve been here with you. We’ll discuss it later, love. We’re all safe now.”

“I suppose that’s all that matters,” I tell her with a shrug. Honestly, I’m happy to leave ruling the territory to those who are far more suited to it. When I open my mouth to inquire about our missing mate, the handle on the bedroom door turns with a click and we both turn to see him slipping through it. It’s a relief to see Rhys dressed comfortably in loose linen pants and an open wool cardigan, broadcasting his intentions to spend the night in. It’s the sight of the babe curled in the crook of his arm, pressed snugly against his father’s chest that eases something deep within me, a knot of anxiety I hadn’t really been conscious of.

The three people I love most are safe.

Feyre moves to sit with her side flush against mine, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. I lean into her side- sag into it, really. I’m already so tired. Rhys settles on the edge of the bed beside us, his knees brushing against Feyre’s as he leans in to wordlessly place Nyx in my arms. There’s something unsettled in his expression I’ll ask about later, but the babe sniffling against my collarbone steals my attention. His fluffy, dark hair smells freshly washed, like the soap Mor always picks up for him during her shopping trips, and I can’t help but nuzzle my nose into it. Feyre’s free hand slips beneath his little wings to rub his back in slow, soothing circles, and Rhys rests his hands on our legs, giving us all a moment to connect.

To breathe each other in.

“I love you,” I murmur against the crown of Nyx’s head between featherlight kisses. I lift my burning eyes to look at his parents, my mates, and take a deep breath before I continue. “All three of you. I love you, I…I’m sorry I haven’t really said it before, not the way I’ve wanted to, but I do. I love you and I want you and this…and I’m so sorry-”

Rhysand leans in to kiss me then: slow and chaste and full of promise. The moment he pulls back, Feyre ducks down to take a kiss of her own, one that leaves me floating and more than a little breathless as she nuzzles her nose against my cheek. No words flow between us, but there's no doubt in my mind that the moment I'm well enough to do so, we'll be consummating this mating bond. I don't ever want to let them go.

Royally Fucked Series Masterlist

A Bodyguard!Daniel x Princess!OC story

Series Summary: Princess Juliette Clarendon’s structured life is upended when the charming and unorthodox Daniel Ricciardo replaces her trusted bodyguard. As she tests his abilities and grapples with his unexpected presence, she finds herself drawn to him in ways she never anticipated. Amid political intrigue and hidden dangers, Juliette struggles with her own pent-up desires, seeking solace and release from Daniel, whose dedication to her safety and willingness to go to any lengths for her only deepens their connection. Their evolving relationship faces challenges that test their trust and loyalty as they confront threats that could endanger both the kingdom and their bond.

This story includes mature content. It delves into the complexities of a princess and bodyguard relationship, exploring power imbalances and the dynamics of duty versus personal connection. The narrative features intimate scenes and adult situations that are central to the characters' development and the unfolding plot. Reader discretion is advised.

Status: Ongoing

#royally fkd fic talks -> writing process, answering asks about the story, and pretty much anything related to this fic series.

NO taglist for this story

Table Of Contents:

Meet Juliette Clarendon

1. Guarded Encounter (2.9k words)

2. Rekindled Autonomy (3.2k words)

3. Stirred Secrets (3.5k words)

4. Unexpected Danger (coming soon)

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