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thesistersarcheron · 9 months

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Pairing: Elriel Rating: E Tags: Canon Divergence - ACOMAF, Accidental Courtship, Secret Marriage, Human/Fae Relationship, Smut, Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending Word Count: 5.3k Summary: After learning of her younger sister's fate Under the Mountain, Elain Archeron struggles to envision her future as the lady of the Nolan estate. Sometimes, when she wakes in the night and the iron band of her engagement ring is cold as ice on her finger, she knows only dread. She has no such trouble with the fearsome Fae male who makes a habit of checking on her every day. It might be some trick, a faerie enchantment or thrall, but falling in love with him is the easiest thing she has ever done.

Part nine of my @acotargiftexchange present for @ultadverb. Title art by @krem-does-stuff, commissioned by @ultadverb.

Read Visions of You on AO3

Elain was shivering.

His wife was shivering.

Whether the subtle tremble in her limbs was from excitement or the rapidly cooling breeze, Azriel couldn’t tell. Distantly, he was aware that he was shaking as well, his wings stiff from keeping them tucked and upright.

He broke the kiss that sealed their vows and leaned his forehead against hers.

His wife.

Her pretty lips were kiss-swollen, her eyes bright. Another tear slipped down her cheek as he watched, and she made an embarrassed sound when Azriel lifted a hand to wipe it away.

A pale, perfect hand curled around his wrist before he could pull back, drawing his fingers to her mouth and kissing away the moisture on his fingertips. The secretive smile Elain shot at him afterward was dazzling in its intensity, and he was blinded by it, by the glint of the sapphire on her ring beside her mouth, by that flawless third finger nested amongst his own—

It was a moment that would be seared into his memory for centuries to come, Azriel realized, softened at the edges by a surreal sense of bliss that he had never experienced before and would likely never experience again.

Not unless he was with this woman.

His wife.

Pure happiness seized him then, mirroring Elain’s radiant expression and cresting like a tidal wave beneath his breast.

Without a thought, he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of her precious palm.

Elain made a noise between a hiccup and a laugh, tilting her head away so she could bury her face in his collar. She took a greedy breath, as if she could scent the joy on him even with her dull human senses.

“I love you.”

Azriel’s pulse thrummed hard beneath his skin.

His wife, his wife, his wife.

“I love you, too,” he kissed the words into her hair.

As Elain pressed closer, the new magic binding them surged—the sort of magic that words alone would never satisfy. It was young, fresh. Eager. The ribbons of it inked onto the back of his hand pulled taut, almost as if a real length of silk bound him to her. The sensation of it shot straight to the gathering warmth in his gut, urging him to close the circle of power they had opened when they sealed their vows.

Coaxing him to consummate their marriage.

Elain must have felt the pull, too, because every breath filled his head with more and more of the sweet, intoxicating scent of her arousal. It called to Azriel like a siren’s song.

She shuddered, and her hips canted towards his—an unconscious movement. He swallowed a groan.

“Azriel,” she whispered into his chest. “What is this?”

“The magic, it—”

She let out a slow, measured breath before he could finish. “Oh, gods.”

If his shadows weren’t hissing reminders that his mother and Mor were waiting on them to emerge from the shadows beneath the trellis, he might have given into the primal urge clawing its way to the forefront of his mind, backed her up against the latticed arch, and taken his wife amongst the roses.

Instead, he glanced up from her golden-brown curls to the shaded spot beside the garden where his mother and Mor both stood.

And gently, using the scant ounce of restraint he had left, he took a step back and drew Elain away from the trellis. He kept one hand in hers, one arm around her shoulder, but didn’t dare look at her—didn’t dare steal a glance of the flush coloring her cheeks that made the magic shake him down to the marrow of his bones.

“We should go,” Mor said when they met at the edge of Rosehall’s garden, her voice kind. She laid a hand on Elain’s elbow, as if she meant to winnow them away that very second. “Time isn’t on our side. You can’t stay the night, but you can stay til dusk.” She shot Azriel a warning look before he could so much as open his mouth to protest. “It’s for the best. If I discovered you two, what’s to say someone else won’t?”

Perhaps it was the magic making him foolish, or perhaps it was the subtle, disappointed fall of Elain’s shoulders, but Azriel summoned his shadows to his side. “I can manage.”

“I think you’ll be even more distracted than you were this morning,” Mor retorted. She opened her mouth again—

“You can stay here.”

The shadows stilled.

His mother, usually so soft-spoken, had a look of concrete stubbornness on her face when Azriel and Mor both whipped their attention to her. She lifted her chin, her stiff wings rustling.

“Your room is always ready, and lunch is already waiting on the stove. Every couple deserves a proper wedding night.”

Elain made a mortified sound. “Oh, no! We couldn’t possibly impose.”

“Whatever you are about to say, don’t.” His mother picked up Elain’s hand, the one Azriel wasn’t already holding, and subtly shook Mor off as she pressed it between both of hers. The sight of it, of his mother and Elain together, made Azriel’s ribs constrict dangerously around his lungs. “Consider it my wedding gift, since my son didn’t give me time to make one for you.”

A wistful smile softened her expression as she cast her attention to Elain’s ethereal dress, and Azriel had no doubt that she was thinking of her oldest friend—of Rhys’s mother.

But Elain was still blushing, drawing their joined hands up to her overheated cheeks, so Azriel cleared his throat. “Elain is right.”

The unfulfilled bonding magic still sawed at him, heightening every one of his senses. He didn’t need his shadows to spot the self-conscious glint of mortal modesty in her eyes or to read the same wants and needs he felt in the tense set of his wife’s limbs. He grazed a knuckle over her blush-tinted face, and the magic binding them wound tighter.

“We’ll return to the House of Wind,” he decided. Anything, anything, to get her alone. It didn’t matter if they had to abandon Prythian before nightfall; he would simply follow Elain back to her mortal home.

His mother sniffed. “No. I will go with Morrigan so you two can have some privacy.” Alarmed warning bells began tolling in his head, but she pinned him with a gentle look. “One day in the city won’t do me any harm. Perhaps she can show me all of the exciting attractions that you won’t.”

Mor’s brows shot up, but Elain coughed to cover a burst of pretty laughter—half-chagrined, half-amused. When Azriel glanced at her, her nerves seemed to have eased, and her lip was caught between her teeth, her attention already wandering shyly toward the pathway into his mother’s garden. He caught his mother looking at her too, and she met him with an uncompromising look.

It was all the convincing that he needed, so he tightened his grip on Elain’s hand and dipped his head to his mother. “If you’re sure…”

“I am,” she said.

Without waiting for a response, his mother lifted a hand to his face, pinching his chin between two fingers and studying him for a moment—just as she always had when he was a boy, when she saw him only for one too-short hour each week. Whatever she saw pleased her, and with a proud smile, she pushed herself onto her toes to skim a kiss over his cheek.

She hadn’t asked any questions when Azriel winnowed into Rosehall to ask her to witness his wedding to a human woman, and when she repeated the gesture with Elain, who beamed under her attention, she murmured another short blessing in Illyrian that made Azriel’s heart ache before pulling away.

“Welcome to the family, my dear.”

“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” Mor trilled. She opened her arms wide and, without warning, launched herself at Azriel and Elain. One squished hug and two more quick kisses on cheeks later, she pulled back with a wink. “Though, knowing Feyre now, I suppose I ought to warn Az about what he’s getting into.”

“I’m well aware,” Azriel told her dryly. He cut a look toward the ray of sunshine that shone on his wife—toward the shadow that still chased the refracted light from her wedding ring. His ring. “I have to brace myself any time she’s within reach of any sort of cutlery.”

Elain gasped, outraged, and elbowed him. Again, the magic coursing between them sang, and Azriel took a deep breath of sun-warmed grass and rich earth to distract from the heady scent of arousal.

And although his mother and Mor laughed, the sparkle in Mor’s eyes faded to something serious quickly after. “Settle things with the human lord and the queens, and then we can decide what to do about Rhys.” She threw a warning look at them both. “Together. All of us.”

“All of us,” he agreed easily. Elain nodded—though the glance upward at him through her eyelashes told Azriel she was not at all sorry they had been caught the first time.

Anyway, it was better to have Mor on his side when going head-to-head with Rhys. If Elain could entice Feyre to side with them, then Cassian would likely decide to stand with them too.

Mor cleared her throat just as Azriel started planning how to remove Amren from Velaris for a few weeks, nodding. “Good.”

Then, she lifted a practiced hand, and a quick snap of star-bright magic glamoured away the vow inked on their hands.

Elain’s smile dimmed, and Azriel decided he would never forgive Mor for it. “Oh. I thought…”

“The marks are still there. I’ve just hidden them until it’s safe to reveal everything,” Mor assured her. “We meet the queens in a few days. Afterward, we can decide when to reveal them.” She twisted her wrist and then held out her hand to Elain. A coiled silver chain sat in her palm, sparkling in the morning sunlight. “My own wedding gift for you two. It should be long enough that you can wear the ring under your clothes whenever you aren’t able to wear it openly, and I’ve charmed it to redirect onlookers’ attention to your face, just in case anyone gets curious.”

“Thank you.” Elain took the chain and, with a sigh far too resigned for any bride on her wedding day, looped it over her head.

A shadow stroked the column of her neck, hooking itself into the clasp of that chain, and Azriel tightened his arm around her shoulder.

“Don’t mention it.“ Mor batted a dismissive hand through the air and then held it out to his mother, whose sweet smile was a marked contrast to Mor’s suggestive wink as she said, “We’ll return at dawn.”

And with that, a swath of dark, star-filled magic curled around them, and the two females blinked out of sight.

Elain sighed.

“I suppose it’s for the best, but I wish she had let us keep them til morning,” she was saying, examining the naked skin of their hands. “It looked so peculiar, I wanted to…”

It all went in one of Az’s ears and out the other because, for the first time in centuries, he didn’t give a single fuck about his hands.

His eyes snagged on the fragile length of Mor’s gift, on the pretty column of Elain’s neck—too clean and too pale without the indentation of his teeth marking her. Instead of being redirected to her face by the charmed silver chain, his attention dropped lower, down to—

Gods, her gown.

Her wedding gown.

The damned thing was nothing more than a half-sheer idea of a dress—a silken seduction that teased the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the shadow beneath her perfect breasts. The high grass in the clearing rippled as a breeze swept through, and the dress sighed a lover’s sigh as it caught the wind.

Elain shivered again, this time from the chill that scrap of seduction couldn’t protect her from.

And Azriel cursed beneath his breath as the shadows beneath her breasts shifted upward, drawing his attention to the pale, peaked suggestion of her nipples behind that silk as her body reacted to the chill.

He didn’t stop for a moment to temper the urge that made him drop her hand with one last kiss to her palm and swept her into his arms, frothy concoction of a dress and all.

“Oh!” Elain tensed, throwing her arms around his shoulders. “Oh, Azriel! Put me down!”

“I can’t.” Finally alone with her, unbound magic and raw need ripped through the ragged remains of his self-control. He barely beat back that mindless beast long enough to remember how to throw up a shield of his own power, guarding them against the wind as he cut through the gravel path through Rosehall’s gardens.

“You are always doing this!” Elain protested without any heat. “Should I get accustomed to being carried everywhere?”

“If you’d like.” Azriel took a breath of air laced with the scent of her. “Are you wearing anything beneath that dress?”

He didn’t know what he wanted to do first once he got her inside—to bundle her beneath a warm blanket in front of the kitchen’s massive stone hearth or to warm her up by pinning her against the nearest wall and ravish her until she was flushed and panting for him. His mouth watered as he glanced back toward her perfect breasts.

Beneath the wisps of fabric masquerading as her skirts, the pale shadows of Elain’s thighs pressed together. The gentle rhythm of his wife’s heartbeat stuttered, and a fresh wave of sweet arousal filled his lungs.

Her eyes cut away, and her blunt mortal teeth sank into her lip.

“No.”

Azriel groaned. “Fuck, Elain.”

How many nights had he spent beneath her skirts? How many times had he drawn up her endless petticoats to find her dripping for him underneath? How many times had he cursed the contradictory mortal fashions that bared her cunt but caged her pretty tits beneath the lace-trimmed stays and ribbons that she liked too much to let him shred off of her?

How many early mornings had he spent stroking his cock, imagining his mouth on them as he licked the lingering taste of her pleasure off his lips?

And still his modest human bride averted her gaze.

It wouldn’t do.

She might have trouble keeping her eyes on him, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of her. He hadn’t bothered to look anywhere but her since she’d arrived at Rosehall on Mor’s arm. Not the clearing, or the lake, or his mother’s garden.

Even now, even though he didn’t look, the grounds of his estate seemed just as enamored of her as he was. Pink petals floated down with every step through the small grove of cherry trees that lined the gravel path, the luckiest among them finding a new home in Elain’s hair. And though Azriel was no poet, he couldn’t help but think that it was as if the earth itself had to reach out to touch his radiant bride.

Hot hunger pulled at him until he stepped through the shadows and onto the small landing in front of Rosehall’s front door. A cheery wreath of wildflowers greeted them, and he paused.

Elain had stiffened on instinct when they winnowed, but she relaxed again easily as the garden reappeared around them.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Her teasing question was colored by the laughter in her tone. “That was, what, twenty feet?”

“I have duty as your husband,” he said tightly, staring at that wreath. At the petals crowning his new wife, and then at her hands, empty of the peonies in her own garden that she had been growing for a bouquet. The marriage magic shoved at him for this delay— wrong, wrong, wrong —but Azriel didn’t heed its urging.

He had gone about this all wrong. He hadn’t courted her properly. He hadn’t asked her father for her hand or her sisters for their blessing. He hadn’t paid a bride price or negotiated a dowry. He hadn’t married her with human vows where her entire village could witness it.

He was the monster in the night that had stolen her away and ravished her until she forgot her mortal lover and then trapped her in a cage forged with unbreakable vows.

And still he wanted more.

But this—

A shadow curled around the handle and pushed.

He couldn’t help himself when she turned her face up to him again, wide-eyed and beautiful. He stole a hard, fierce kiss.

“I’m supposed to carry my pretty human bride over the threshold so the faeries don’t steal her away before we can seal our vows,” he murmured against her lips. “If I remember my superstitions correctly.”

Elain melted into his arms.

“So do it then,” she breathed against his mouth, and he gave into the temptation to slant his mouth over hers, stroking his tongue against lips until she moaned and opened for him.

He loved her. Adored her. Treasured her. He loved her easy laughter, loved the softness of her in his arms, loved the jagged edges she tried so hard to sand down, loved the sweep of her delicate dress against his legs. He loved her, even if loving her damned him.

His wife.

He wanted her bound to him in every way that mattered. He wanted her heart, her vows, and all she would give him of her body. He wanted her mornings and nights. He wanted to ruin any other lover for her—the mission he’d set himself the moment this soft, human girl had curled up in his lap after that perfect day in Dunmere and pressed a shy kiss to his shoulder that he had pretended not to notice.

He didn’t care if it made him selfish. If she was too gentle and kind for a ravaged beast like him. If it broke some centuries-old treaty he had no part in negotiating or if it made him the monster from the childhood tales she’d been told.

He loved her, and he couldn’t offer her much that was purely mortal, but he could give her this.

Between one breath and the next, Azriel stepped over the threshold, carrying her into the modest country house he’d purchased with his blood money from the first war centuries ago.

Against the pale stone and leaded windows and fanciful tapestries, clad in a singing, sighing gown that made her seem to glow, Elain looked like she belonged. Like she had been raised beneath the high ceilings and soaring beams. He didn’t dare set her down, for fear that she might feel her feet connect with the ancient oak floors and fall perfectly into place; she would forget him entirely, swept away by the business of running this estate like the well-bred lady she was and too busy to bother tossing a scrap of attention to the feral mutt at her doorstep.

“Az.” Her arms tightened around his neck, and Azriel snapped to attention. “It’s real. It happened.”

He nodded, his head going quiet as he looked at her. “It’s real, Elain.”

“It’s real. We’re married,” she said again, softly, angling her head for a kiss. Azriel obliged her, peppering kiss after kiss over her lips, her cheeks, her jaw—unable to hold back as he lost himself in that brief connection.

The scent of an Illyrian lamb stew, rich and savory, filled the space. Although his body was focused on sating a different kind of hunger, for Elain, he would wait. He would break the kiss and ask, “Would you like to eat before—”

“No.” One of Elain’s hands traveled to the nape of his neck and tangled in the short hair there before he could go too far. Her eyes were dark, her pupils blown wide, and she licked her lips almost nervously before she said, “I think we’ve waited long enough. Take me to your room, husband.”

The thought alone—Elain in his bed, beneath him, above him, wearing nothing but that barely-there dress and then nothing at all—stoked the burn of his desire, and Azriel nipped at her lip in reproval before he corrected her:

“Our room, wife.”

He set off at a pace eager enough that Elain muffled another musical laugh with a kiss to his cheek. And although he knew it was ridiculous to be jealous of a house, Azriel did not walk her through Rosehall. He did not show her the parlor where she could receive her sisters or the morning room where they would take tea or the library where she could needle him into reading one of the nonsensical romances the Archerons sometimes seemed to pull out of thin air instead of his bloody network’s endless reports. He didn’t let her glimpse the greenhouse where his mother would surely carve out a space for Elain’s vegetable-growing experiments.

Later. They could do all of that later, when they had sealed their vows.

He did not take the stairs two at a time. Azriel barely made it down the entry hall before giving into the impatience that dragged at him again, and Elain squeaked as they walked through the darkness, emerging from a small patch of shadow beside the hearth in his quarters.

“Stop that!” She giggled helplessly, her head tipping back, and Azriel fell further in love. “Or at least give me some warning.”

“I’ve observed your mortal traditions,” he told her, setting her on her feet on the thick, hand-knotted rug that covered most of the room. Instantly, his wings twitched with instinctual agitation as he rebalanced himself, and his arms ached without her weight to ground him. Elain swayed, and he bent his head toward hers to whisper into her ear, “Now let me have my wicked faerie way with my stolen bride.”

A full body shiver wracked Elain, and he caught her wrists before she could cross her arms over her chest—before she could hide the perfect ebb and flow of her curves from him.

“May I?”

Elain nodded. Her eyes were half-lidded and locked on his mouth, so Azriel licked his lips, watching as her eyes darkened with intent. He curled a hand around the back of her neck, tipping her head back, and drank in the way her breasts dragged against her dress as her breaths changed from shallow anticipation to deep, hungry lungfuls.

He waited until a quiet, needy whimper issued from her throat before he descended on her.

Every second of Elain’s wedding night would be perfect. He would make sure of it.

Everything had to be perfect for her.

Time and again, he had been told that he was an exacting perfectionist—that his work ethic was as sadistic and unforgiving in his office and in the training ring as it was in the dungeons below the Hewn City. Mor tended toward exasperation whenever she brought it up, Rhys always approached him with a hint of pity, and Amren spoke to him only with the cool calculation of a strange, foreign god who saw a keen tool she was eager to make use of.

But Cassian… Though he teased and jibed, he understood too well what drove Azriel to such brutal measures. Az never missed the appreciative glint in Cassian’s eye—the hard-won pride that all bastards shared after excelling in every challenge handed down to them. The grueling work ethic that won them both the title of Carynthian, seven Siphons, and a coveted place inside the High Lord’s Inner Circle over any other well-bred Illyrian brute.

So Azriel would please his little human wife until she was mindless with it. He would drive Elain mad with pleasure until she was as endlessly in love with him as he was with her. He would make her proud of the vows she had taken today; he would make sure she always thought of their marriage with the smug satisfaction of a spoiled cat given a cageful of canaries for Solstice. He would drown out the shame of marrying a loathsome, bastard-born lesser fae in a secretive ceremony and rid her of the anxiety that made her voice timid and tremulous when she reminded him that she wasn’t his mate by making her scream apart for him again and again and again.

But before he could begin to make sense of the delicate cord that hugged the dress to Elain’s body, before he could hone each point of his plan and slot it into place like bows into a quiver—

A lithe pair of hands tugged at the closures by his waist that kept the back of his jacket secure around his wings.

He dragged his teeth over her lip and broke the kiss with a disbelieving breath. “What are you doing?”

“I want to see you, husband.” Her voice was so close to pleading that his heart hurt at the sound of it. She didn’t notice his agony, though, too busy chasing his lips. When he refused her, drawing back just enough to look at her, he found that her dark eyes were depthless, starved, and completely guileless. Simple, honest desire stared out at him. “All of you.”

Azriel huffed. “I thought we decided weeks ago that this isn’t about me—”

“You decided,” came the snappy retort as Elain freed the final button on one side. “And before we were married, too.”

“Elain—“

“You vowed to honor me, Azriel,” she said absently, doing battle with a stubborn button on the other side. “So honor my wish. You’ve seen all of me. I think it’s fair that I get to see all of you, right?”

This wasn’t a part of the plan, had never been the part of any plan laid out for any lover, but—

“Unless you don’t want to?” His wife’s sudden hesitance was so at odds with the decisive tug of the leather straps at his thigh next, so close to his throbbing cock that Azriel nearly fell to his knees. Elain paused, her fingers curled around the buckle keeping Truth-Teller fastened to his leg. “Sweetheart?”

Fuck.

He didn’t have words.

He shook his head.

“Good,” Elain chirped, pulling once more at the strap.

Although he had never let anyone else handle Truth-Teller before, Elain made quick work of the straps around his thigh. She was quick enough to let Azriel know she’d been studying them when his attention had been elsewhere, and then she lifted his dagger free with a triumphant grin.

He was blind with wanting her. Every muscle was tense, and every useless beat of his heart pulled more blood from his useless brain to torture his aching cock.

But Elain took mercy on him before he could do anything truly stupid. She dragged her eyes away from his and traced the rune-stamped sheath with something like reverence.

Azriel wanted her to draw the knife. He wanted her to plunge Truth-Teller into his chest, so he could prove how happily he would take that blow from her—only from her.

Instead, Elain lifted the blade to her lips, harness, sheath, and all, and pressed a little kiss to the obsidian hilt. “For keeping you safe until you could meet me.”

Such a sweet, silly sentiment. Azriel wanted her to carve out his heart and keep it in a box beside her bed to repay it.

The magic binding him to her tightened as if to say, Every bit of you belongs to her.

His wife, who didn’t balk. Who didn’t cringe away from his tainted touch or his bloody work.

Distantly, he watched Elain place Truth-Teller on the small table beside the low-backed armchair in front of the hearth. Wordlessly, he helped her figure out how to remove his jacket without harming his wings. Elain’s unsteady heartbeat echoed in his ears as she followed the trail of buttons down the front of his best shirt, and he found some satisfaction in the sight of her eyes going wider with every inch of skin she revealed.

He did his best not to preen when he realized she wanted more—wanted him. That she looked past the pale scars etched into his skin, swallowed hard, and pressing her thighs together, kept taking less-than-surreptitious, wide-eyed glances between his chest and the outline of his cock beneath his trousers. Naked curiosity was plain on her face, and he had to wonder how often she’d been around men in similar states of undress.

Or if her human fiance had blown out every candle and took her maidenhead in the cold, unwelcoming darkness of that keep.

Elain made no move to strip him any further, so Azriel shrugged off his shirt, tossing it atop his jacket and his knife.

“You have tattoos,” she whispered, her hand hovering in the magic-charged space between them.

Azriel caught it and pressed her fingers to his chest.

“Oh!” Elain looked at him, her lip trapped between her teeth, her hand beneath his palm. Tentatively, her fingers spread out, stroking and setting his blood on fire. She blinked. “I can’t feel them.”

He couldn’t keep the amused smile from kicking up a corner of his mouth. “No, they feel just like the rest of my skin.”

An adorable pout overtook her full lips. “Did they hurt?”

Yes.

They had hurt terribly. Even a week after the Blood Rite, after being healed by the monolith atop Ramiel, after Rhys’s mother fought Devlon with a zeal to get Azriel and Cassian into the tattoo artist’s tent, Azriel hadn’t had an ounce of fat left on him to cushion each punch of the enchanted needles. The stern Illyrian artist wielding them had made his distaste for Azriel known, stabbing them harder than necessary into his skin until they burned almost like his hands—

“No more than our wedding bargain,” he told her, flexing his glamoured hand around hers.

With what seemed to be great effort, Elain tore her attention away from his tattoos. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Liar.”

“Guilty.” Azriel shrugged, uncaring as long as she kept touching him, kept exploring his body until her curiosity was sated.

Her expression was deceptively innocent as her gaze returned to his chest.

“Oh,” she cooed, clicking her tongue. “My poor love…”

Her fingers continued their journey, but Azriel’s world tilted as Elain dipped her head so she could follow the trail they blazed with her lips. She laid kiss after kiss on his tattoos, following the vicious sweep and curve of the ink across his chest until his skin felt too tight. Several pecks alternated between unmarked brown skin and the black ink of his tattoo, as if Elain were testing to see if there were any difference between the two she might determine with her mouth…

And then her pink tongue flicked out, catching on his nipple, and Azriel’s heart stopped entirely as that hot, wet sensation shot straight to his cock like a lightning bolt.

“Elain,” he rasped, shocked, a hand instinctively winding itself in the silk-soft hair at the base of her skull to try and pull her away. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing it better.” His wife’s next kiss ghosted over the inked skin above his heart, and playful brown eyes peered up at him. “I hate the thought of you in any pain.”

Azriel frowned. Was this the magic influencing her? It had calmed to a dull, ever-present roar since he’d gotten her alone, but against a human’s senses… “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” She smiled her sweetest smile, the one that never failed to make him plan a new trip to the continent just for her, and her lashes fluttered. “But you’ve been so good to me, and I just want to…”

A cool breath dragged indecently across his skin as her hands wandered down his bare sides to his waist, little shocks of magic following in their wake as she clutched at him, steadying herself as she—

Azriel froze.

As she went to her knees.

“Relax,” Rhys said. “Azriel isn’t the ravishing type.” - ACOWAR, Chapter 24

He needed to know what the skin of her neck tasted like. What those perfect lips tasted like. Her breasts. Her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue— - ACOSF, bonus chapter

girl dinner, girl dinner, girldinnergirldinnerGIRLDINNER

I swear to GOD the next chapter will be up within the week. If not, feel free to hunt me down. As always, I adore hearing your thoughts, and thanks for reading! 💕

#elriel #elain archeron #azriel shadowsinger #elain #azriel #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #a court of thorns and roses fic #my fics #visions of you #smut #fluff #acomaf #a court of mist and fury #human elain x fae azriel

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