#PLSSS PLS COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS EEEEE i need to scream about this story w someone

[buckyschair]

✸ WHAT HE DOESN'T KNOW ✸

ILLICIT AFFAIRS ✸ PART TWO 

Pairing: Azriel x fem!reader

Summary: After reconnecting with your old flame Azriel, you can’t get him out of your mind. Now, it’s your husband’s birthday, but who’s gonna give you a gift? After all, what he doesn't know won't kill him... AKA closet quickie with Azriel at your husband’s birthday party

Content Warnings: contains smut 18+ MINORS DNI, cheating (WITH, not ON Azriel), alcohol, female reader, shitty husband (not physically abusive), casual shadow bondage, PIV sex (no protection bc they are faeries and this is fiction, but put on your mental magic condom if you must), gross liberties taken with whatever’s going on with the Hewn City, swearing, no use of Y/N

Author's Notes / Housekeeping:  1. This is a part two to my previous fic Illicit Affairs, I would highly suggest you read that first so that the context makes sense, but not strictly necessary 2. Reader’s husband is a guy I made up, named Lustere. He works under Mor’s dad so he’s a minor political figure in the Court of Nightmares (he’s introduced more in this part, but saying it here for clarity) 3. This fic is not based on Eurovision’s plot at all I promise haha but HEAVILY inspired by that one line from Scotty Doesn’t Know: I did her on his birthday ;)

Enjoy!!

Word Count: 6.8k

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Read on AO3

Despite the world shifting force of your collision with Azriel, not much changed afterwards. 

The days slipped by, transient and thin as ever. 

Although admittedly, after your late night rendezvous, your games died down. You still lit a fire on occasion out of habit, but the fantasies had lost their power to distract you. 

Without the ability to make your thoughts a refuge, your thoughts began to bite back, and they played dirty. They consumed you. 

It was not the gentle kiss of fantasy but the harsh swallow of reality that haunted your days and your nights, your psyche irrevocably tied to the painful present. You were shocked to find it so mind numbing. 

Nothing in your life was your own. How have you put up with it all these years? As a female in a court of males and fuckery, nothing was yours. Every piece of food that passed your lips, every sip of wine, every fancy dress, bought with your husband’s credit. 

So what could be yours? 

Even as your heart despaired, some small part of you whispered, and your soul curled involuntarily around a persistent, subtle flicker. Your eyes had begun to catch shadows everywhere. Wherever they lurked, you wondered, were they his?

You hoped the answer was yes. 

Regardless, their presence soothed you. They were a reminder. 

Azriel. 

What you had with him, however gossamer thin, was yours. No one else’s. 

One night had been enough; the secret fueled you. 

The parties were easier to organize, the house more orderly than ever. When the dullness threatened to deaden every nerve, your memory was quick to recall the thrill. It kept you back from that brink. 

However, it was a pity that the fresh fuel was poured into such futile efforts, the most interesting of which was planning boring events for your and your husband’s social world. You were certain your eyes would soon dry out from a lack of entertainment. 

One of these events was a celebration. 

Your husband’s day of birth. 

When Lustere had first entered your life, now centuries ago, you had honestly been relieved. He had represented a chance at a new life, maybe even at love. Mostly, he had promised an escape from your father’s home. In that, at least, he had proved useful. Not so much for the rest. 

If you heard the voice of hope now, you would hardly recognize her. Her gentle song had died centuries ago, along with a part of your soul. 

As his day approached, you thought you ought to feel something, some joy, some excitement, perhaps some pride in the male he had become. All you could muster was a temporary damper for the decades of resentment. 

Luckily for you, you were in charge of the whole event, including the guest list. 

“Who do you want me to invite?” you asked him casually after dinner one night, well in advance of the event. 

Lustere sighed condescendingly, the sound score of your life. “Aren’t you supposed to be handling this? I’m so very busy these days.”

Your eyes crossed from your stacks of papers to where he was pouring his third drink of the evening. Busy indeed. 

“Of course, dear. I’ve got it covered, I just want to make sure I don’t leave anyone out.” Your tone was as sweet as the smile plastered to your face. 

“Don’t leave anyone out!” he urged you with your own words, as if it were a new thought for you to try out. “Invite everyone important.”

You bit back a bubbling retort, your sweet smile tasting sour. “I’ll see to it.”

“Good, good,” he mumbled dismissively. 

“It will be a lovely event; and, more importantly, no one who matters will be snubbed.” As you spoke the words, Lustere turned to you slightly– almost even looking at you. 

His face was set in a scheme, so he looked pained. “On second thought, maybe we could uninvite that one guy. You know, the courtier with the annoying wife?”

“We can’t uninvite them, not when they haven’t been invited yet.”

“Maybe their invite could get lost in the mail.” 

Your eye roll was internal, but you wished you could slap it into his mind. He never listened. 

“Consider it done,” you agreed.  

At least he was predictable. 

In his self importance, Lustere had asked you to ‘invite everyone important’. 

How convenient, you smiled to yourself as you penned another name on the provisional guest list. Azriel could easily be considered a most important guest.

One gift for yourself on your husband’s birthday. You’d earned it. 

✸✸✸ 

“What are they doing here?!”

For a second, your heart leapt to your throat. With a cordial smile, you turned away from the guests you’d been chatting to, only to face your husband’s hushed accusation. 

Lustere’s anger was rare, thank the Mother, so when it reared, you never knew what to expect.

“Who?”

You scanned the room; it was full of your husband’s acquaintances, colleagues, and enemies alike. 

“Her! And that shadowsinger!” his words were a flustered whisper. 

It was a different emotion that caused your heart to jump then. You followed his glance to find the male in question, linked arm in arm with the Morrigan. 

You swallowed a smug smile at your husband’s discomfort at her presence. 

Not that you could have known that he found her unsettling… but you’d certainly hoped. He nervously eyed the side of the room where she and the Illyrian made a frightening pair. Oh, that damned Illyrian. 

Your pulse quieted as you drank him in. 

If he would be the death of you, you’d only be grateful. 

Azriel looked devastating. His usual leathers had been exchanged for slightly more formal slacks. His siphons still gleamed, but his powers were reserved in accordance with the casual setting. He still looked intimidating as ever, while the blonde on his arm was just as fearsome in her gorgeous get up. 

“Oh!” you fumbled momentarily; your vision stuck across the room, your mind caught up in a particular tangle of sheets. “I saw you speak with him at that event last month, so I thought it might be a nice gesture to invite them. I didn’t honestly expect them to show up.”

“Well,” he smoothed his panic into a self-satisfied smile. Your palms itched. “It was a good thing I talked to them, then. Clever.” 

You knew the compliment was addressed to himself, not you. 

For an insufferable bastard, you sure suffered. 

“Have you greeted them yet?” his question grated you. 

“Not yet, I hadn't been made aware of their arrival–” 

“–Well, don’t wait too long, dear. You wouldn’t want to be rude, hm?”

With that, Lustere moved away to greet some other guests, but you only dimly registered the movement, his critique. 

Your eyes were focused on the shadowsinger. 

Azriel was here. 

And Mor was with him. 

Among your husband’s upper court colleagues, you’d gotten creative with who could reasonably be considered a part of his circles. If you could invite the Steward, surely the Overseer and her friends were fair game as well. You’d invited the lot of them, on that whim. As you approached them, you cursed yourself for your liberties with the guest list. 

You hadn’t seen Azriel since that fateful evening. The male rarely visited the city, and here he was, twice in as many months. Your gut roiled, you wished you’d had time to prepare. 

But you had prepared, you told yourself. You knew how to play this role, the hostess. It was one you’d mastered over the years.

It was easy to slip into now, thanks to centuries of playing the part.

Azriel and the Morrigan’s diffident eyes piqued with interest as you glided to stand before them with open palms. 

“Greetings to you both!” You presented yourself with a subtle bow, and they in turn introduced themselves. It was the picture of sophistication.

“It’s a pleasure to be officially introduced,” Azriel said, and his voice flowed like honey. 

His words were perfectly cordial, yet they sent a rush through you. 

You didn’t need to remind yourself; you were hyperaware of the fact that this was the first time you were formally meeting him, at least to the public.

Before you could answer him, Mor was sweeping in with artful compliments about the event, finishing with a resounding “-and you look divine.” 

Kindness suddenly made the daunting warrior glow, her face open and shining as her armor fell away to acknowledge your work. It was wonderful. You hoped your husband was watching. 

“Why, thank you. This old thing?”

You twisted to show off your garment, and your heart swelled to match her radiance. 

It was actually an old gown, pulled from the back of your closet. It was the dress you’d worn centuries ago, on your first anniversary with your husband. 

As you’d primped for tonight, he had even complimented it: “I like the new dress,” he had said. “You should wear things like that more often, it's far better than the usual sort you wear.”

You had bitten your tongue, but his words still stung. You should have known better than to have expected him to remember the dress. You weren’t sure why you’d chosen it for tonight. For some reason, it had felt auspicious when you’d seen it twinkling at the back of the wardrobe. 

“Oh, they don’t make them like they used to,” Mor said wistfully, eying the fine material. She was oblivious to how she had soothed the sore subject with her simple compliment. 

“They certainly don’t,” you agreed, and your eyes drifted to the shadowsinger. 

Through your daze, you gave them the welcome spiel, and pointed out some familiar faces that they could chat with.

“We’re honored to have you here, enjoy the evening,” you admonished with a genuine smile. You turned to continue your cycle through the room of guests, already spotting your next mark. 

“Where could we find a drink?”

Azriel’s words froze you in your tracks. Mor was agreeing with him, firing off her order for him to fetch. His eyes were on you. 

“I’ll show you.” 

The words escaped before you could think. 

He nodded and stepped towards you to follow your way. 

You didn’t move. 

He looked stunning up close. 

Several tendrils of dark hair had escaped the hold of his gel. His shadows were relegated to his wings, camping out like bats in a cave. You swallowed thickly, remembering how they had felt on your own flesh, how sensitive his wings had been to the slightest touch. 

During your welcome and introduction facade, his amber eyes had been stoic, an unreadable mask. Now, they flared briefly with confusion as you stayed paused.

It rocked you back into your body, your mind addled but present. 

“Yes, of course– this– this way.” 

Luckily, no one was paying attention to you, next to a presence so commanding as the spymaster’s. No one noticed your momentary lapse– no one except him. 

Azriel fought a smirk as you wove through the room together. 

His rough hand came to hover at your lower back, and you bit your tongue at the soft contact. 

“Here we are.” 

All too soon, you’d arrived at the bar. It was centrally located in the room, which was crowded, but not so crowded as to obscure the main attraction, especially not from eyes as keen as those of the spymaster... 

Azriel was casual as he ordered his and Mor’s drinks. 

“And a whiskey, neat.” 

Your eyes snapped to him, and he had long been looking at you. 

“For the generous hostess,” he murmured. 

You felt your cheeks heat, and you hoped no one would notice your blush. 

“Thank you.” You belatedly remembered your manners as he pressed the glass to you.

“I owed you one.”

Your mouth went dry. 

He was being bold. Anyone could have heard his little comment. 

The imposing Illyrian took a long drink out of the elegant vessel. Your mind flashed back to a different night, when his lips had been on another glass. Your pulse fluttered as you recalled the last time he had drunk from your husband’s collection, and the things he’d done to you after. Foggily, you wondered if this would prove a similar potion. 

He frowned at the dark liquid suddenly, before grunting, “Except technically, I suppose you’re funding this one, too.”

“Guess you owe me another one.” Your words were light, flirtatious, even as your lungs stuttered. 

“I’ll get my best people on it.”

At his wry humor, your laughter was breathless, hardly a wheeze

“Actually,” you winced, “this would be on my husband’s credit. As was the last bottle…”

“Ahh. And where is the male of the hour?”

You gestured broadly, shaking your head and rolling your eyes with impressive coordination as you took a gulp. Damn, the male knew how to order a drink. 

“Around. It’s his party.” 

When you caught his eyes again, it was clear he didn’t give a damn about the male of the hour. 

Heat flared in your chest as he pinned you with his gaze. Azriel’s eyes were heavy lidded as he watched you watch the room. He took another delicate sip of his wine. It was indecent, how perfectly his lips perched on the edge of the glass, how his tongue darted out to swipe at the liquid that stained them. 

“Speaking of which,” you said, and shook yourself out of reverie, “I’ve got to make the rounds. Enjoy the party.” 

He took his time watching you go before returning to lurk by Mor’s side. 

For you, the evening passed in a blur of greetings and introductions, false laughter and sparkling beverages. Desserts were passed around right on cue, just as the toasts were begun. You kicked them off, your toast to Lustere short in contrast to the tall tale it told. Just your style: brief and full of lies. 

Lustere’s grateful smile and kiss at its conclusion was just the same, an empty facade. At best, it was a convincing performance; at worst, it was still the best you could expect from your lifelong consolation prize. 

Once upon a time, if you’d tried, you could almost fool yourself into thinking it was real. But you'd since stopped fooling yourself; the trick had only worked the first few hundred years. 

Reality was the only vow you honored now. 

As Lustere’s friends and associates began to serenade him with vacuous praises, you slipped away from the crowd. It was a moment to check on the staff, see about how things were flowing and if they needed anything. 

Without looking, you felt someone’s eyes on you, as if in a concentrated beam. The intensity felt palpable. It was like a spotlight, even as you wove unnoticed through your own guests. 

Tonight wasn’t about you. You’d made sure it wouldn’t be. 

You grabbed a nearly empty tray of desserts from an attendant, directing them to pick up a full one from a table. You gestured towards the other side of the room with your free hand and a kind word as you moved towards the back rooms. 

“The room’s unbalanced, we need more trays over there– oh, shit.” 

You swore as you crashed into something. Firm hands steadied you reflexively before you could drop the dish. 

Your gut swooped as you turned to see what you’d wandered into. The platter was pressed between you and none other than the shadowsinger himself. If you didn’t know better, you’d say Azriel looked amused. 

“Careful there.”

“Sorry,” you gasped out. He waited a moment longer than necessary to release your arms. Slowly, you peeled away, angling the tray horizontal again. 

With horror, you noted the crushed pastries smashed into his elegant vest. 

“Cauldron boil me.” You were sure everyone could see your blush now. Luckily, the platter hadn’t dropped, so the accident hadn’t drawn much attention.  

“It’s fine–”

“–no, it’s not. Come with me. Quickly.”

You gripped his wrist. A quick glance told you that no one was looking. 

Only Mor had witnessed it, and she just snorted. At your clumsiness, or the droning speech being given at your backs for your ass of a husband, you didn’t know. 

You didn’t care. You had more pressing concerns at the moment, as you led the important guest from the main room to the small prep kitchen at the back of the venue.

“I’m really so sorry about this, sir,” you blustered as you swept into the tight space. Several attendants looked up from where they’d been arranging desserts on trays.

“Hey guys, we need more hands out there,” you addressed them. “The far side of the room is starving.” 

Dutifully, they picked up their trays while you ushered them along. 

“You should look where you’re going,” he commented, tentatively, as they all filed out of the kitchen, leaving you and Azriel alone. You wetted a rag, wringing it out before handing it to him to clean himself up. 

“Clumsy me,” you hummed. His jaw was tense as he swiped at the crumbs on his torso. It was kind of distracting.

“How have you been?” he asked without preamble, now that you were alone. 

You relaxed instantly at his casual tone. “Good.” It was hardly a lie. “Busy,” you amended. That was the full truth. 

“Nice event.” 

“Thanks.”

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Azriel cut abruptly. 

You snorted. 

“No one deserves this much pomp. It makes me sick.” Your eyes widened as you heard yourself. 

You’d been alone with Azriel for less than a minute, and here you were voicing your innermost, honest opinions. You had never shared anything like that with anyone, not even your husband, let alone this practical stranger. Yet the words were true, and you could hardly take them back. 

“Have you ever had a party like this?”

You cocked your head at his question before answering slowly. “Yes. Right now in fact.”

“No, I mean, something like this, but for you.” He said it so casually, focused still on wiping a smear of frosting from his clothes. 

“Oh.” 

Who would plan something like this for you? 

The answer was hollow, but definite. Nobody. 

Some of the society’s husbands did big parties for their anniversaries, their birthdays, whatever excuse they could find to buy liquor by the barrel. 

You’d had a lovely ceremony to officiate your relationship with Lustere, but that was it. How long ago had that been? Through a blur of centuries, you pictured the party. You’d planned it alone, and it had honestly been breathtaking. What a waste. 

“Um, no. Never,” you laughed, too loud. You didn’t need his pity. 

Azriel hummed, undeterred from creating a quiet moment with you. “Me neither. Every year though, my family insists on doing a special dinner. I wish they’d forget it, but since I refuse to do a whole thing like this,” he gestured around and widened his eyes in emphasis, ”I bear it annually.”

His words struck you funny. Your mouth continued ahead of your senses as you urged him, “You should let them.”

“What?”

He looked up at you in confusion, but you didn’t relax your knit brows.

“You should let them throw you a party.” Your conviction was sudden, but swift, and final. “You deserve to be celebrated, you should give them the chance.”

He dismissed your suggestion with a firm shake of his gorgeous head. “I’d hate it.”

“How do you know that?” you pressed. His face twisted in regret as his confession launched from his tongue. 

“‘Cause I hate this.”

“Yeah well, that makes two of us,” you admitted. 

His brows rose at that. If he’d expected you to sink any personal pride into the event, he was sorely mistaken. 

Then his eyes dipped to your toes before lazily arcing back up your figure, and his expression shifted from surprise to something less innocent.

“Surely you didn’t mind the excuse to pull out that damned dress.” 

You jumped on his playful tone. “Careful there, mister, I have a husband.”

Azriel’s laugh was just as irreverent as his next words, “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” 

His eyes crinkled as his lip curled in humor, and you liked the look of it on him. He wore all his faces so handsomely; menace, humor, lust. 

The latter of which was gradually blooming now, as if called into being by your imagination. His gaze still held a speck of humor, though at a lower pitch. There was mischief dancing in those hazel pools, dark and unmistakable as his eyes devoured you. 

The male slowly stroked the damp towel against his abdomen in a deliberate show. The cloth was as dirty as his vest now, covered in sugary smears. You couldn’t help but picture what you knew was under his shirt, the ink that whorled its way down his front, dipping below his waist. 

The silence was charged, the only sounds were the wet rustle of the towel and your own shallow, erratic breaths. 

His vest was as clean as it was going to get with such sloppy motions. Now he was just rubbing the stain in, so you grabbed it and took over, helping him brush away the last of the frosting. 

“This venue has a cloakroom, isn’t that ridiculous?” you feigned casual conversation as your heart raced, your fingers twitching at his stomach. “This whole city is under a mountain, there’s no weather. And no one has bothered with the custom of overcoats in centuries.” 

The words weren’t subtle, the hint bold faced and loaded. 

“You’re unbelievable,” he accused. Azriel shook his head even as a coy grin melted his hard features.

“Who, me?” you said innocently. He grabbed your wrist that was still swiping at his lower stomach. The frosting was long gone. 

“You planned this.” His words were definitive. 

It wasn’t a question, but your chin dipped in confirmation anyways. 

“Why?” he pushed.

“Why do you think?”

The venue had been a choice, as had the single perfumed invitation, as had the short staffing; all manufactured by you. It was all perfectly calculated, down to the timing of the toasts and the spill of the dessert tray. It had all been a part of the plan: your master plan to get him here, alone, in this very moment. 

Azriel swore as comprehension hit him, his mind wrapping around the totality of your little plot. Anxiety built in your gut. 

Was this foolish? Well, of course it was, but it really would be if he didn’t–

“Think you can keep quiet for me?”

The swelling panic in your chest melted instantly at his suggestive words, his voice a wicked rasp that set your skin on edge. Something bubbled in your chest, like an overeager gulp of champagne that wouldn’t settle. 

You arched your brow, “Can you?”

A shit eating grin broke on his face at the challenge, and he growled. 

“Do your worst.”

You matched his expression as something snapped between you. 

He used his free hand to angle you up to meet his lips in a hungry kiss. Every list, plan, plot, and scheme crumbled at the warmth of him, dissolving it all into sweetness. 

Every late night hour spent scheming had been worth it, just for this moment. His hot mouth on yours, your hands tangling in his hair. 

He shifted against you, and you gasped as you felt him hardening at your lower stomach. 

“Fuck, baby. This is all I could think about the second I walked in. You in this outfit… fuck,” he panted as your mouth shifted to taste his jaw. You whined into his skin as he ground against you, demanding some real friction. 

“You need me too? Or do you want to suck me off right here?” he growled. 

Arousal flooded your core at his dominant tone. You pulled back to look him in the eye. His pupils were blown out, his lips swollen. 

“Not here,” you pleaded. 

His look was wicked as he saw your reaction, but he didn’t push you. 

Instead, he allowed you to lead him through a different door, a few steps down a hallway, and into a small room. You sent a silent blessing to whatever architect included a much disused cloakroom in the venue’s design. Well, much disused until now. 

The instant the door closed, his lips were locked on yours. 

“Eager?” he teased hypocritically between rapid kisses as you fumbled blindly for his belt. 

“I’m sort of multitasking,” you panted. 

His brow arched.

“I’m running this show!” you explained hurriedly. “The toasts just started, but they won’t go on forever. Eventually someone might come looking for us, or me at least.” 

His mouth fell open, but you cut him off.

“Don’t look so worried, Azriel, we’re right on schedule.”

The male huffed out a laugh, and shook his head. By the light in his eyes, he was impressed. 

“You’re killing me, baby. You’ve been killing me all night.” His words were a groan. 

He said it like an accusation, so you retorted in kind, “Yes, and I’ve been planning for a month to get twenty damn minutes alone with you because I’ve been totally balanced and not at all because you’ve been killing me just the same.”

That shut him up. 

He sucked in a breath, and his face set with determination. 

“Well, then,” he said. “I guess I’m going to have to show you a good time.”

He wasted no time reattaching his lips to yours, this time with renewed fervor, before he pressed you against the wall. One of his rough hands came to grip your neck, angling your head perfectly for his strong jaw to set to work. Between his hard body and his looming wings, you were caged. His palpable power sent a thrill through you, rattling to your gums and winding right to your center. 

Deftly, he undid his belt in one swift movement with his other hand. You whined as you felt the leather smack briefly across your thighs as it fell to the floor.

You felt his hum through his tongue on your teeth. 

“Another time, maybe we’ll use that.”

“Oh gods,” you whined. 

His grip on your hips was like a vice, and your pulse was a riot under his rough fingers on your throat. 

“Maybe I’ll have Rhys throw a fête here instead of the main hall for my birthday this year,” he murmured darkly against your lips. 

You gasped and his tongue swept in again, muffling your pleas. His taste was as intoxicating as you recalled, the flavor of wine and salt heavy on his thick tongue. 

“Would you like that?” Azriel pressed. “Maybe you’d even let me taste you, hmm?” 

“Anything,” you moaned as his wet mouth replaced his hand along the column of your throat. “I’d plan the damn party just to get you alone for five minutes.”

His teeth scraped bluntly at your jugular as he grinned. 

“I thought party planning was a special privilege, only to be enjoyed by a female’s husband,” he teased. 

“You’re right, that would be downright improper. I’m not that kind of girl.”

His chuckle at your collarbone was sinful, the sound of it echoing down to your core. 

“No, no. I wouldn’t want to taint your honor.”

“No,” you echoed absently as he placed open mouthed kisses along the neckline of your dress. It was a light fabric, but it was suddenly smothering. Your skin burned; you were desperate for more contact. His heavy hands and scalding mouth weren’t enough.

“Please, Az,” you urged. 

His belt was undone, as were the top buttons of his vest, but the two of you were decidedly too decent. It would hardly even make a scandal at this point, to be caught fully clothed. 

“You want it?” he glanced up from your chest, spit straying along his sharp jaw. He growled, “You can have it, baby. I’ll be generous, after all I didn’t bring a gift.”

You only whined as his hands smoothed down your form. 

With a final kiss to the exposed tops of your breasts, the Illyrian knelt to the floor. 

Azriel looked debauched; his carefully groomed hair a mess from your hands, his vest askew, and his eyes blown with lust. His powerful chest was heaving as his hands carefully skimmed up your calves. He pushed the bottom of your dress over your knees, kissing the soft spot inside there. He continued to mouth at your thighs as he hiked your skirt up.

For all your careful planning, you had no remaining nerve to urge him to hurry. His tender handling was addicting, the closest thing to appreciation you’d felt in decades. And to feel it so intensely, so viscerally, so physically? It hardly felt fair to call it a vice. 

What others took for granted, you could only indulge in the dark closets of your own life. If you’d be damned to be blamed, then so be it. 

Because Azriel looked like a statue on his knees for you. His composition was darkness and light, pleasure and pain, right and wrong. In this moment, he was a blissful concoction of it all, and you wanted to drink every last drop. 

 “You look lovely tonight," he praised with a kiss to your inner thigh. The compliment was almost jarringly polite paired with his next move, as he lewdly brought a finger to press over your clothed core. The fire that had burned low in your belly was stoked at the contact, flaring to a throbbing need. 

With swift fingers, he pulled your undergarment down your legs before slyly stuffing them into his pocket. 

“Fuck,” he groaned as he dragged two digit through your soaked folds. “Even prettier than I remembered.”

You choked back a moan as he drew circles over your clit. It was torturous, and as his large wings blocked the rest of the dim room from your vision, you felt the thrill of his overwhelming power, his meticulous skill. 

One of your hands wove into his hair, the grip both imploring and terrorized as he sparked wave after wave of pleasure until he was satisfied with your near broken state. Your other hand skimmed down his chest when he eventually stood before you. 

At the scrape of your nails towards his need, he groaned, “That’s right, baby. You want to take it out for me?”

With shaking hands, you undid his slacks. He hissed as you freed his aching member, his tip angry and swollen already. 

He dragged himself over your glistening folds torturously for a brief moment. You whimpered and he laughed darkly before he lined himself up, teasing you with the barest pressure of his tip. 

You clawed at his shoulders, his hips, trying to urge him to get to it. With one of his hands holding your hip, and the other balanced on the wall beside your head, Azriel was the picture of leisure. 

He had no sense of urgency about these things, you were learning. 

“Gonna let me have my way with you, huh? That’s a good girl.”

Slowly, he pushed himself inside, bottoming out in one brutal stroke. You cried out and he slapped a rough hand over your mouth. Your eyes flashed wildly as he began to fuck you in earnest.

“That’s it. Take my cock like a good girl.” he growled. 

He set a punishing pace, finding his own sense of urgency at last. He filled you so perfectly, the stretch just right. The scrape over your spongy walls was agonizing as he pummeled you. One particular harsh thrust had you crying out again, muffled against his fingers. 

“Gotta be quiet, baby, can’t have anyone finding us like this.”

His expectation was impossible when he abruptly yanked your top down so your breasts spilled out. 

“Happy birthday Lustere, alright,” he groaned sarcastically before sucking one of your breasts into his mouth. 

You dissolved into another whimper at his wicked words and the warmth of his mouth on your tender flesh. 

“You’re bad,” you moaned as the sick sound of your sex filled the tight room. 

If this was bad, maybe the world had it backwards, because why did it feel so good? Why did you feel so complete, falling apart shoved against a wall in a closet at your husband’s party? Especially with a male you should hardly be on a first name basis with, let alone close enough to moan his so unabashedly.

That was all it was, you elected to believe. The secrecy, the illicit nature of the connection. That was the basis of its appeal. 

Not the particular partner, though he was rugged…

And he was charming… 

And his teeth were ghosting your neck in a way that made you want to scream… 

But of course, you could hardly whimper at full volume. It only made you want to yell more. The resulting noise was a breathy strangulation, more vibration than real exhalation. 

“Azriel,” you cried, and you felt him twitch inside you.

His hips snapped faster and the light in his eyes was wild. 

“Are you close, angel? Fuck, we’ve gotta be fast.” He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob. “It’s so twisted. All I want is to take my time with you. Look at you, doing so well for me.”

His praise was as invigorating as his thrusts, which were growing sloppier with each breath. His stamina wasn’t the issue, it was the waves of pleasure numbing his body that caused him to tremble before you. 

You clenched around him and he swore, gasping as his body stilled. Azriel pressed his forehead to yours as he came, and somehow it was more intimate than you were prepared for, your fingers threading through his damp hair. 

His lashes fluttered shut and his mouth parted, gone wretched with bliss. The feeling of his hot breath and sticky skin on your face made you want to kiss every inch of his flesh. 

Even as he pulsed inside you, he brought his thumb to rub tight circles on your sensitive bundle of nerves. In moments, he had you coming undone as well. He quickly regained enough function to fuck you through it, his thrusts shaking. When you cried his name, he caught it with his mouth, stifling your crude noises as you convulsed around him. 

The sensation had him half hard again, but he pressed a kiss to your throat and held you still as you both came down from your highs. 

“Happy birthday to me,” you muttered into his cheek.

Azriel wheezed at that, an arrogant smirk winning out through his fatigue. “Was that worth it?” 

“Definitely,” you breathed, your fingers brushing his hair back into some semi respectable waves. 

Ignoring your efforts to put the two of you back together, he captured your face in his hands and planted a buzzing kiss on your mouth. He lingered longer than you expected, tasting you and savoring your warmth. 

“Okay, Azriel, time’s up,” you sighed after an indulgently long moment. 

He nodded, but held your face a moment longer before tapping your hips twice and sliding himself out. You both groaned at the absence, bodies still slick and buzzing. 

As he tucked himself away, he looked oddly contemplative for someone who had just had a quickie in a closet while on the job. 

You smoothed down your dress, disregarding your missing underwear. It’s not like anyone would notice, least of all your husband, who hadn’t approached you like that for decades. 

While you did your best to tame your wild hair, Azriel looked like he was far away. You tried to hurry, mistaking his distance for discomfort in the aftershock of the interaction. In moments, you were fully decent, and at least mostly presentable. 

Azriel paused you with a silent gesture as your hand met the door. A shadow slipped back in and around his ear, and he nodded. 

The pair of you slunk back down the hall to the still empty kitchen, and you tried not to think about the slick still mixing on your upper thighs under your dress. 

Before you could push on to reenter the party, the shadowsinger grabbed your arm. His expression was serious when you faced him

“I want to hire you.”

You laughed at his bizarre words. What was he implying? “What, you want me to plan your birthday party? I’m not sure if you can afford me.”

He joined your laughter, and you threw away your whole schedule at the sound. Surely you could allow yourself an extra moment here with him. All that was waiting was worthless, anyways. 

“You know, I'd actually love to see that,” he smiled. The simple gesture made your insides heave, which you attributed to the recent intrusion on your guts. 

You wiped your eyes, attempting to tame your doubtlessly ruined cosmetics as you joked with him. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to hear that laugh again. “It’ll be a hit. We’ll only serve whiskey and there will be no food so everyone gets blasted way too hard– ooh, and the servers will be in their undershorts–”

“–I can't wait,” he cut you off. “But that’s not what I meant.”

“Okay,” you sobered up at his tone. “What then?”

“Well, you obviously have some covert skills…” 

Well, you think, that’s one way to describe centuries of spying on your cheating piece of shit husband, and more recently, coordinating this… whatever this was.

���...And you can arrange a seamless rendezvous,” he continued, now listing your achievements on his roughened fingers.

 You blushed at the innuendo, still lost to his meaning. 

“...And your husband works under the least trustworthy son of a bitch I've ever met,” he finished. 

“So?”

“You're in a unique position,” Azriel explained cryptically. 

Your brows scrunched. You hadn’t had anything but a sip of champagne since the sip of whiskey earlier, yet you were thinking through a thick haze. All you could think of were innuendos about unique positions…  

“A unique position for what?” you asked.

“As an informant, of course. You could be very useful.” The words were casual, but you saw how his amber eyes were set with strange emotion as he extended the offer in a deep tone. 

Azriel’s words echoed in your mind, hollow to anything else. You could be very useful. 

Something surged through you at the word. 

Useful.

You could be useful.

Very useful. 

How long had you grieved of the uselessness of your work, the incessant, all encompassing meaninglessness of your labors? How empty it all was, how vacant each day left you. How fruitless too; all these years, giving yourself over to nothing, and winning nothing in return. 

You swallowed the emotion rising at your throat, and a grin bloomed on your face in its wake. 

“What do you need me to do?” 

✸✸✸ 

“Where have you been?”

For all your scheming, your husband’s voice wiped your mind blank. Voices whirled around you, echoing happy and careless in the large room.

“Lustere, I–”

“–There’s empty platters out here, it looks cheap.” You blinked as he looked around in annoyance. “Aren’t you going to do anything about that?”

Leave it to him to interrupt you. You needn’t have prepared such an elaborate excuse for your absence when you couldn’t even get a word in. 

And sure enough, just as you’d planned and predicted, you hadn’t been missed. 

“Of course, dear.”

He only gave you a curt nod. Before he could turn away completely, you found yourself reaching out with a gentle hand, and something akin to affection slipped into your tone. “Are you enjoying yourself, Lustere?”

There was no tenderness as he looked in shock at your hand on his arm, only confusion. 

“Of course,” he said in a self-evident tone. Your husband looked around the room, cataloguing the faces of his guests. “Everyone important is here.”

Your fingers on his arm went numb. Everyone important had been there.

Only you hadn’t been there. 

You had been three doors away, wrapped up in darkness with another man. 

Despite his ignorance, what Lustere said was true: everyone important to him had been there, everyone who mattered. 

Just not you. 

The tenderness curdled in your chest. Whatever short candle you held for Lustere, died in that moment. And yet, ever the good wife, you dutifully nodded at the side of his head. 

“Good. I'll go fix the attendants.” And see if they haven’t picked up any good gossip from this high profile crowd… 

Something warmed inside your chest as you felt the ghost of your promise to Azriel still fresh on your lips. Your game with him had expanded, in one breath. 

No longer were you nothing to him, to anyone. 

You were to be the spymaster’s eyes and ears on the corrupt inner workings of the Court of Nightmares. 

And you had nothing to lose. 

✸✸✸ 

ENDNOTES

Thank you for reading!! Please comment if you enjoyed it, I actually spend quite a bit of time on these haha so I love to hear from youuu. I also love to chat in my inbox or dms so don’t be shy!! I’d love to hear what you think is gonna happen next.. ;)

I fear I have made this plot far FAR too elaborate than cheating smut would sensibly demand. So! Stay tuned for at least two or three more parts of angst and smut and fluff!! HAHA!! 

Oh and Lustere should fuckin’ watch himself… lest a terrible accident befall him… sooo whose knife should it be team?? >:))