#this might be the general anxiety speaking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wri0thesley · 6 months ago

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eyes - neuvillette x reader (8.5k)

you have always known, one day, you would be married off to someone not of your choosing. but you certainly never expected it to be the iudex himself.

cw: not sfw text. explicitly chubby virgin reader, some insecurity, arranged marriage. double dick neuvillette, cunnilingus, bathing together. reader is afab but referred to with neutral pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

There are certain standards one must follow as a child of Fontainian society; certain things that are expected of you. A certain way to speak and move and act - a set of rules that have been laid out clearly for you since the day you were born. You will know which fork to use at which mealtime. You will know the difference between what is appropriate to wear to a matinee and to an evening show. You will trust your elders to guide you, and you will be grateful for the life that they have oh-so-painstakingly laid out.

So you are not surprised when your mother tells you that you are to be wed.

You have even been expecting it. Since you became of a marriageable age, you have looked at all of the other children of society and wondered what kind of match your family might make. One of your own generation? Older, perhaps - more secure in their wealth and their status and position? You have even laughed about it with your friends, when you were out of earshot of all of your elders - discussing who would be the worst options, gossiping about who has had who over for tea recently.

She’s surprisingly tight-lipped about who you’re going to wed, too. That’s not unexpected either, though it does make anxiety roil hot and sour in your gut. Plenty of children have run away from home so as not to be wed to somebody decades and decades their senior, or somebody with a reputation for cruelty - or sometimes even because the match that has been made has not taken into account a love affair unbeknownst to the elders of the family.

You have no such love affair to romantically dash off into the sunset with; you have been a good and dutiful child your whole life. And though you do, perhaps, wish that you could know what it was like to have a love so fiery and passionate you would disobey the only life you’ve ever known . . . you have come to accept that will not be your lot in life.

You have even worried once or twice that somebody, upon finding that they were engaged to you, might wish to run away. You have looked in the mirror and scrutinised your face, your posture, your body - a body that has fallen out of fashion recently, the beauty ideal in Fontaine being very much ‘look as much like Lady Furina as possible’. It is your body, though - and it has stood you in good stead, and the night in which you are finally to meet your betrothed your mother and your maid stand in your bedroom looking approvingly at how your gown falls over the soft peaks and curves of your hips and chest.

All you know about this person who you are to be wedded to is that every time your family talks of them, they can barely hide the smiles on their faces and the superior lilt to their tone. Whatever match has been made for you . . . they are utterly ecstatic about it.

“I think he’ll be more than pleased,” your mother says, tugging at a fold of fabric - she had chosen to have this dress made in pale blue, though it is not a colour that has been in your wardrobe before. A man, then; a well-placed man who makes your family giddy with excitement - a man partial to the colour blue and a spouse whose figure runs more to curves than lines.

It is not a lot to go on.

So you do not know what to expect, as you are brought down the stairs and into the dining room. All kinds of thoughts dance through your head; some pleasant, some . . . not so. You know that you will meekly accept what you have been given, the way you have been brought up to do - and it is not lost on you that the trajectory of tonight will perhaps influence your life for years and years to come. There is always the chance that, seeing you in person, your parent’s intended will reject you--

Your mind is churning at a hundred thoughts a minute as you step inside the dining room - but when you see who is seated at the head of the table, all of those thoughts seem to clatter to the ground at once.

It is a wonder that your mouth does not drop open.

In all of the time you have spent gossiping about possible matches in society, nobody has ever mentioned - even off-handedly - the possibility that the Chief Justice of Fontaine may be looking to marry.

But there sits Monsieur Neuvillette - a little awkward, yes (he is being chattered to most insistently by your father), but straight and tall and handsome in his chair, his robes of office perfectly pressed, his face schooled carefully into a polite look of vague interest. Your mother coughs, and he looks up--

And his eyes, the colour of the evening sky or a perfect sapphire, widen just a touch. His mouth opens, the barest amount - and you swear that as his gaze sweeps over your form in your carefully chosen blue dress (a choice you are beginning to understand), he visibly swallows.

“Ah,” he says, and he stands - walking towards you, bending and inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to . . . finally meet you in person.” You’re still rather stunned speechless by everything that is happening - you cannot help but feel as though things are happening around you, and not to you - but as Neuvillette uses one of his gloved hands to take yours and to press a lingering kiss on your palm that makes your entire body feel as though it is on fire, you are suddenly all too aware of just what is going on. “You look radiant tonight.”

“M-Monsieur,” you say in return, and you sweep what must be the clumsiest curtsey of your life. “I . . . I have to admit that this is a surprise.”

“Not an unwelcome one,” your mother puts in before he can respond. “Of course, we’re delighted with this match, and we’re absolutely sure you’ll be delighted with them--”

“I understand,” Neuvillette says, his eyes not leaving you. “If I may be frank with you, until recently I had never thought to marry.”

Questions rise in your throat. If he had not thought to marry, why was he doing it now? And why you, when surely he must see the upper echelons of society every single day? What had brought him to your family’s door, asking after your hand over everyone else he must have had first pick of? But these are not polite questions for the dinner table, when your mother and your father are already ushering the two of you to your seats beside one another and beaming so brightly that it hurts to look at them.

The dinner table is a place for light, polite conversation; the last opera you saw, the weather. Neuvillette smiles into his wine glass - a glass you notice is filled with water - when you mention that it has not seemed to rain much recently. You notice him looking at you every so often, over rims of glasses and delicate bites of foods . . . but you know that you, too, cannot help but sneak a glance at the Iudex of Fontaine seated by your side.

Your future husband! Your betrothed! The man you will spend the rest of your life with!

As much as you may wish for a moment alone with him, you know it is not proper; so when he stands and kisses your hand again and your father takes Neuvillette into his study to hash out some further details of your impending nuptials, you swallow your disappointment and remind yourself that you will have years with Neuvillette, to learn his secrets - to discover why he has decided to take you as a spouse.

There is little time for getting to know one another beyond the most surface of levels when a marriage has been arranged for you - there is even littler time when the man you are going to marry is one of the most powerful and busiest men in Fontaine. Even the few times you see each other as the wedding looms closer - the period your parents optimistically refer to as ‘courting’ - there is little time to get to know his heart.

You realise, at the final fitting for your wedding clothes, that the first time you will be truly alone with the man who is to be your husband will be the night of your wedding.

And that particular thought . . .

You know the ways of the world. You know what will be expected of you, in order to properly consummate a marriage - you know that you will be intimate with Neuvillette for years to come. But the idea that the first time that the two of you will be able to snatch time with one another with no parents or gossip-mongers or anybody else around will also be the time in which you and he will legally become one (and you know, from experience at the Opera Epiclese, that Neuvillette is nothing if not a stickler for the law) . . . oh, it is enough to make you reconsider one last time running away from your responsibilities.

“Mother?” You ask, your voice quiet, the night before your wedding. You have spent the entire day overseeing flowers and being asked questions, watching the cooks and the waiters bring in fine delicacies from all over Teyvat (Neuvillette had not wanted hosting duties; you get the impression that as long as the ceremony was done legally, he would be pleased enough to call you his spouse. But your parents have been preparing for this your whole life, so they had indeed wanted the spectacle of their child marrying the most powerful man in Fontaine. With no family to speak of, he had acquiesced to their desires. Your parents are in shivers of delight that Lady Furina will, too, grace the halls of your family home). “What if . . . what if I do not please him?”

You are sitting before your dressing table, in your sleeping robe, haunted by thoughts of all of the things that could go wrong whilst your mother double checks your wedding gown and the jewellery you are to wear tomorrow. She looks over at you - her face is normally hard, but as she sees the knit of your brow and the bite of your teeth into your lip, she sighs softly.

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says, stroking your cheek. “The Iudex asked for you specifically.” You blink at her, wide-eyed, and she laughs a soft little laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head, now; they have been badgering him to marry for some time . . . but he did ask for you, out of all of the people he could have had. So take heart in that. Do you think him a foolish man?”

“No,” you shake your head, your voice a soft whisper. You suppose that Neuvillette is many things, but ‘foolish’ would not be one that would cross your mind.

“There. You and he are going to have a happy life together.” A sly look steals over her face. “Ah . . . are you worried about the wedding night itself?”

“Mama!”

“It’s something we all go through, my dear.” She catches your chin in her hand and smiles at you, and for a moment, despite all of the times you have disliked her for the life you have been forced into . . . you are reminded that she is your mother, and she wants this to work just as much as you do. “Do not be frightened of him. Do not be overwhelmed by him. He has chosen you to be his equal, but he will not expect too much of you. I promise . . . everything is going to be fine.” She gives you a wink. “And if I were you, and were to marry a man who looked like the Chief Justice - why, I’d be positively thrilling with excitement at the thought of my wedding night!”

“Mama!” This time, your scandalised tone brings her out in peals of laughter, and she kisses the top of your head as she leaves the bedroom. The door clicks behind her.

Your final night in your childhood room; your final night unmarried. One last slumber amongst your own silken pillows and sheets (what kind of bed, you wonder, does the Chief Justice sleep in?).

That night, you dream of a sea that churns with a similar anxiety to the one that you feel in your own belly.

The morning of your wedding day, it is raining. Your family fuss over it, but as you stand at your window with people running all about you, messing with your hair and rearranging your dress and having arguments about your bouquet, you cannot help but find it comforting to watch the rain fall in droplets, stopping and starting again, mirroring your own still-nervous heart.

You think you will falter at the last hurdle, as you stand outside of the Opera Epiclese - normally a place of theatricals, but also a place of the law, and the place that the most important part of your wedding day will occur - and take a deep breath ready to start your new life. The bouquet in your hands is full of rainbow roses and romaritime flowers, bursting with colour; you are grateful to have it to hold on to, as the doors are thrown open and you walk slowly down the aisle of the theatre.

Your eyes desperately seek out someone who will provide you an ounce of comfort in the crowd, all peering at you curiously to see the person who has finally tamed the Chief Justice. This is a spectacle as much as a wedding, you suppose; and as you see some people whisper behind their hands, you wonder if you have been found wanting. You bite your lip hard to stop yourself crying - and then, onstage, his hands clasped over his cane, your gaze finds Neuvillette himself.

The patter of the rain on the roof of the Opera stops all at once. For a moment, you swear everything falls silent, as you and he look at each other.

Slowly, his mouth breaks into a small, secret smile, and the buzz of whispering intensifies - but that smile is enough to steady you. To remind you he has been nothing but kind and polite. To whisper to you that perhaps this union is a thing to look forward to, and not to be feared.

He looks as handsome as ever; his suit perfectly-pressed, his hair streaming in a neat silver white tail behind him. There are flowers that have been braided into it; and you see, as you ascend the stairs to the stage, that there are a group of Melusines sitting in the front rows with matching little bouquets of Lumidouce bells grasped in their little hands, beaming up at the Iudex.

Lady Furina presides over the proceedings, tossing her hair and preening and holding the audience in the palm of her hand - another reminder that theatrics are more respected than the law in a land like Fontaine. But you cannot bring yourself to mind too much - not when Neuvillette’s smile is steady, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Not when, as he repeats the words in a clear voice like a ringing bell, he whispers them again as if they are only for you. Not when he takes his bare hands - ungloved, for the exchange of the rings - and holds your own, soft and round and dimpled, as he slides the ring onto your finger as if you are the most delicate thing in the world.

When Furina - with more glee in her voice than you would have expected - announces that he may now kiss you, you feel your shoulders draw up in anxiety. The entire audience goes quiet, waiting with baited breath for this - as if it is one of the things they have been waiting for all day. Neuvillette, though, keeps his gaze on you. He acts as though there are not a thousand Fontainian citizens watching your every move - slowly, he places his arm around your waist and draws you closer to him, so close that the crowds seem to melt away and there is nobody but the two of you.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear, angling his head so that the crowd cannot see that he has said something that is only for the two of you (no doubt they would be baying to be privy to the marriage bed, if they thought they could get away with it) - and then, his lips brush against yours. They are cool and soft; the lightest tang of sea-salt remains on your own after he is done. The crowd roars with their approval as he steps back and bows to you, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand - and you stand there, trembling, excited and nervous and frightened and on display all at once, as your new husband takes you by the hand and gently, gently leads you back down one of the aisles of the opera, out to the waiting carriages to spirit you away from the spectacle of the opera house and into the spectacle that your parents have designed as a celebration.

As it turns out, it is not so bad. Your parents have understood, at the very least, that the two of you will be retiring early to Neuvillette’s residence (your trunks already packed, already loaded onto a carriage to be delivered in the next few days). They have managed to rein themselves in; only invite the most important echelons of society to this celebration, despite the luxury and the excess that has been coming into the house for weeks now.

So you bow to Lady Furina and accept her compliments with a stutter and hot cheeks, Neuvillette by your side, his steadying hand on your waist. Neuvillette expertly manages to weave around your family’s ballroom as if he has been doing it all his life - but then, remembering how much older he is than you, you suppose that he has been doing it at least as long as you have been alive. He has a remarkable way of remaining polite, yet not brokering too much room for small talk and gossip, as if he can tell that this kind of thing is not your favourite.

You overhear, when you have been spirited away from your husband’s side for ten minutes by some of your friends, an older couple accosting Neuvillette.

“You had all of the choice in the world,” the man says, poking Neuvillette in the centre of his chest - from the slur in his words, you think he may have partaken in a touch too much of your parent’s imported dandelion wine. “Whyever did you make this one?”

Your heart stutters in your chest; a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of your wedding gown. This is what you have been fearful of, this whole time - you being found wanting, you being seen as not good enough for Neuvillette--

But your new husband merely smiles.

“I have eyes,” he says, mildly, and he turns away from the couple and brings an end to the conversation that you know must leave them utterly blistering. He comes to find you, instead - apologising most profusely to your friends for having to steal you away.

You stay for as short a time as you can manage, with the congratulations and the toasts and the speeches (a Melusine or two makes a speech for Neuvillette; you much prefer their simple honesty to some of the awful gushing things that come from the mouths of connections of your parents who have never given much care to you before), with the cake being cut--

“Here,” Neuvillette murmurs, and your cheeks go hot as he feeds you a bite of his own slice from the same fork he has been using. “I must confess that this is rather too sweet for me.”

By the time that Neuvillette begins to make his excuses, bowing and smiling and thanking his hosts and the guests, the moon is already hanging white and plump in the black velvet of the night - and as you say goodbye to your parents, your Mama gives you a wink that makes you go hot all over.

Neuvillette’s residence is surprisingly unassuming; it is smaller than your parents house, and he does not employ half as many maids or staff. For a moment, his gaze flitters over to you, and you sense a nervousness in the air.

“I am sorry if it is not what you were expecting,” he says, voice clipped - but you shake your head, and try and let some of the anxiety drain from your tight shoulders.

“It’s lovely,” you say, firmly, as he helps you out of the carriage. This time, when his gloved hand - he has chosen to put his gloves back on, his wedding ring glinting over the black satin - touches your waist, you gasp. The frisson of promise that runs through the touch makes you feel dizzy with possibility. Neuvillette looks at you with those dark sapphire eyes of his, and murmurs;

“I apologise if you’re nervous. I have no wish to . . . make you do anything you don’t want to. I am more than willing to wait-- the law does not require we consummate directly on our wedding night, and if you are frightened--”

A drop of rain lands on your cheek.

“No,” you breathe out, all in a rush, surprised to find it falling from your lips as you say it. But then you think of his lingering kiss, of the way he shut down that couple at the wedding reception, of that private smile he had given you to soothe your fears as you walked down the aisle, and you’re even more surprised to find that you mean it. “Not at all. I-- I am nervous, but . . .”

He gives you another soft, gentle smile that makes your heart feel ready to burst out of your chest. The raindrop you had felt has no companions; simply a freak occurrence in the weather.

“I must admit,” he murmurs, as he helps you towards his front door. “I am very pleased to hear that. I hope you won’t find it remiss of me to admit that I have been . . . rather looking forward to it.”

Your cheeks go hot again. The idea of Neuvillette, imagining you like that, even waiting for it . . . it is hard not to find it at once flattering and embarrassing. Neuvillette opens the door for you, but as you go to step inside--

“Ah, just a moment--” He leans his cane against the front door, and reaches for you. “I’m aware there’s a custom about bringing one’s new spouse over the threshold, and I would hate to break tradition--”

“You don’t have to,” you say, stuttering on the words. “I’m not light--”

But Neuvillette has already reached for you, already wrapped a surprisingly strong arm about your waist - and before you know it, as if he hasn’t needed to exert any energy at all, you have been pulled into his hold, held like a princess being rescued by a knight.

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, his smile soft once more.

“You feel perfectly light in my arms,” he tells you, as he steps over the threshold with you and gently places you down as softly and carefully as he had picked you up. You were not expecting the strength from him - he wears his robes of office, of course, and he certainly has the height, but there’s a kind of willowiness about him that does not exactly betray him being able to do such a thing.

(If he can do that, a wicked little voice in your head whispers, imagine what else he could do to you - how easily he could manipulate you in a more intimate moment--)

It’s almost as if he can read your mind. He laughs a clear, silvery laugh like the rushing of a river.

“Shall I show you to our bedchambers?” He asks you. “I’m sure you’ll want to get all of your finery off soon; it looks rather heavy. If you are not opposed . . . perhaps we may bathe together?”

Your heart, beating double time in your chest. Neuvillette’s eyes, cool and calm. The way your blood seems to sing in your veins. You smile back at him.

“I would like that very much.”

Neuvillette’s house may not be as extravagant as expected, but the bathroom more than makes up for it - and most of all, the bathtub set into the floor, as wide as a swimming pool. He sees your look of surprise and laughs, sounding for once a little embarrassed.

“I enjoy being able to relax in water - natural water most of all,” he tells you, “but it would be rather . . . scandalous, if an ordinary citizen were to find me unexpectedly. This is my compromise. One of my vices, you may say.”

As vices go, it is a tame one, and you look at the bathtub - already full of clear water, so you can see the mosaic tiles on the bottom (the tub itself is stepped, so one can simply sit and relax at one end or perhaps even use the other end to swim a few strokes).

“I loved to swim when I was little,” you say, wistfully. “As I got older, my parents thought the idea of me wearing my swim clothes too often was improper, but . . .”

“Well,” Neuvillette says, placing his hands upon your hips with only the lightest of pressure as if he is still too afraid to touch you too much. “You are welcome to use this bathroom for swimming whenever you wish. It is not quite the same, of course, but I want nothing more than you to be happy here. What’s mine is yours now, sweet one.”

It’s the first pet name he has used for you, and it makes your mouth go dry. Slowly, you turn towards him. You are about to be naked together, you suppose - even if you are going to bathe before anything more intimate happens - so you ought to be braver. You reach for his face, palms warm on his cheeks - and though his eyes flash in surprise, he gladly leans in to let you kiss him.

This time, you let the kiss linger for longer; this private moment in the sanctity of a home that is to be shared between you. He sighs into your mouth and pulls you closer himself, so as you cradle his face his palms rest upon the ample curve of your hip. His teeth tug, almost shyly, at your bottom lip - and you feel your lashes flutter, your heart give an answering skip in your chest. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you part your lips, allowing him to take you as he wants - but even this ‘taking’ is done slowly, carefully, like a man who wishes to savour you.

You pull back, your breath coming in soft little gasps - Neuvillette’s eyes are half-lidded, but it does not stop him smiling at you, putting you at ease.

“We ought to disrobe,” he tells you, kindly - and he gently motions for you to turn, so that he may work at the difficult laces and hooks of your bridal outfit. You feel a little shy, as the fabric pools around your ankles, and you are left bare - but then he is turning you around, and in his eyes you see something that must be close to worship.

“I am a man who says what I mean,” he tells you, tilting your chin upward toward him. “I have not spared your ego, little one - everything I see before me is . . .” He shakes his head, letting loose a ragged breath, more undone than you’ve seen him before. “More than I could ever have asked for.” One gloved finger trails across your lips, tracing a patch from the corner of your mouth down to your throat, your collarbone - reaching behind you to unclip your undergarments, so they fall to the ground with your gown. “You’re truly the loveliest creature.”

“I--”

He shakes his head, smiling still.

“Perhaps in my choice of a spouse,” he murmurs, “I let my own desires overtake me a touch . . . but ah, if you could see yourself the way I see you--”

You hesitantly hook your thumbs into your underwear and stand before him, naked completely - and you win, for your bravery, another ragged breath.

“I must warn you,” Neuvillette murmurs, as he reaches for his own collar and begins to unbutton, to untie, to work the trappings of his own outfit off of himself. “You may be . . . surprised.”

“By what?” You feel brave enough to give him a little smile, though your heart is still beating faster than you’ve ever felt it. “Am I to discover you have been hiding extra limbs?”

Neuvillette’s gaze does not falter.

“Something like that,” he agrees, mildly, as he slips his shirt and coat from his shoulders. His skin is milky pale in the moonlight streaming in from a window set high in the wall, his hair glimmering silver. He takes your breath away.

Who would have thought you would ever find yourself in this position with the Chief Justice of Fontaine?

He unbuttons his placket slowly - and as he carefully works down the fabric of his trousers, you realise exactly what it was he was warning you about.

“I hope I do not disappoint you,” he says, as your mouth falls open at the sight of his cocks; resting one atop another, both half-swollen already. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of your wedding night, still to come. “I assure you, I know exactly what to do with them.”

“I--I didn’t mean to--!” Your voice comes out a little panicked - but then, Neuvillette lets out a soft huff of laughter.

“It’s quite alright,” he tells you. “But I will reiterate; I will not hurt you. You are . . . more than welcome to touch. But if we do not get in soon, I fear the water will have gone cold.”

Neuvillette helps you into the bath, surprisingly unashamed of his own nakedness. At the press of his body against yours as he helps you down the steps inlaid into the tub, you feel his cocks jump against you, the wet smear of something against the dip of your back - but then, Neuvillette is lowering himself into the water beside you and letting loose a sigh of pure bliss that sends a coil of heat spiralling to between your thighs.

You have never partaken in the gossip that surrounds Neuvillette, about his pointed ears or his inhumanly lovely face or his age - you would never have expected what he is hiding in his trousers. But as you sit beside your new husband, you cannot help but feel as though it makes perfect sense - a man like him could not be ordinary. And you trust him when he tells you he will not hurt you; when he says he knows what he’s doing, you think of all of the time he has on you and you have to suppress a shiver of desire for what he may have to teach you.

He touches you, as the two of you bathe together. Lets his fingers massage the shampoo into your hair, lets his hands slide the washcloth over the contours of your body until you can barely breathe for the hot trails of fire that he leaves in his wake. You do not think he means to inflame you so - but then, he allows you to do the same thing to him, and he shudders and leans back into your touch, a soft noise almost like a purr falling from the back of his throat, and he realises exactly what bathing together is doing to you both.

Still. The two of you linger there; touching one another. Getting to know one another’s bodies without any fear, for beneath the water all is muffled and calm. His fingers learn the shape of your nipples when he pinches them, how they pucker and harden beneath him. His palms learn the weight of your breasts, heavy and ample in his hands. His mouth learns the taste of your shoulders, as he drops hot, wet kisses across the span of them, the nape of your neck. And in return you feel the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his skin, the feel of his corded muscle beneath his deceptively slender frame.

By the time the two of you are wrapped in fluffy towels the colour of an early morning sky, you are both hot with want. Neuvillette’s twin cocks seem to pulse with his desire; you can no longer tell if you are slick and wet from the bath or from the space between your thighs. You shyly look at one another through lowered lashes, though, as the wedding night and all it entails comes closer and closer and closer.

“It’s a beautiful night,” you say to him, when the two of you have finally entered the bedroom. Neuvillette’s window is open a crack, enough so that the lacy curtains flutter in the light night-time breeze. “You would hardly think it’s been raining on and off all day.”

“Mmm,” Neuvillette agrees, as you feel him come up behind you. He slowly takes your hands, encouraging you to drop the towel; and then you stand before him, naked again, but with something far more than a bath in your future. He leans in and presses a kiss to the sensitive place where your neck and shoulder meet, just barely grazing it with surprisingly sharp teeth. “I should not wonder if it doesn’t rain again for some time.”

Neuvillette leads you to the bed, his hand firmly around yours. He is unerringly gentle and patient with you, as he urges you to sit upon the bedcovers - and your breath catches when you do as he asks, and instead of joining you he sinks onto his knees. You have never thought to imagine the Chief Justice kneeling before you, and the sight of it makes you buzz all over in anticipation. He smiles at your unsurety - and leans in, pressing a kiss to your knee, gently urging you to spread your thighs for him. His gloves are stripped away, but his wedding ring gleams on his finger as his fingers sink into the soft, full skin of your thigh.

He leans in, pressing another kiss to the side of your knee. Higher, higher, higher he trails them - and his breath fans cool against your heated core, and your fingers clench into the bedsheets in surprise at what he might be about to do.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs to you, his cheek pressing silky against your skin, as he suckles a love-bite into the part where your leg meets your pelvis. “I merely want to ensure you’re adequately prepared.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” you say, breathless, hot, embarrassed and needy all at once. This is an act of such intimacy, you do not know how to parse the thought of the Iudex doing it to you - but he gives you a smile that is not without a hint of fang, the wickedest look you have seen upon his face so far, and he reaches between the two of you to use his thumb to pull apart the lips of your sex so you are revealed to him.

“Oh,” he breathes. “But I want to, sweet one. And . . . looking at how wet you are for me, I daresay you want me to do so too.”

“M-Monsieur--”

“Neuvillette,” he murmurs, and he presses a kiss directly onto your sex, slick and wet with your own excitement, his nose brushing across the swollen nub of your clit. “Use my name.”

“Neuvillette--” It comes out rather thin and reedy, but Neuvillette does not seem to notice - instead, he seems rather preoccupied by what lies between your thighs. Your fingers tighten when you feel his tongue slide across you, gathering your slick upon the tip. There’s a strange quality to it, almost as if it is longer and firmer than a human tongue ought to be - and as he flickers his tip over your clit, again and again and again, and you shudder from the sensations he draws forth . . . you wonder if, too, his tongue is forked--

Thoughts quickly dissipate from your head when there is a man knelt between your thighs, though, and it is no different for you. The wondering is quickly chased away by the hungry way that Neuvillette laps at you, like a man who has been parched for water for months.

Through it, he urges you to part your thighs as wide as you can, so that he can more thoroughly attack you with his tongue - and with every stroke, with every suck and lick and groan of him against you, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach in a way you have never experienced. It is like his mouth is a match, setting fire to your core - despite how you can feel wetness dripping down you, onto his bedcovers, surely soaking his chin and his lips.

He does something with his tongue - a twirl, a flourish - and his name comes spilling out of your lips like a prayer, and the idea that he may at some point stop using his mouth on you flashes across your synapses like a tragedy. Without realising you’re doing it, you move one hand to grip his silvery hair, to keep him anchored against you - you realise, too, that it is not merely his name spilling out of you like an overturned wineglass. Pleas and whimpers and begging have joined the fray, and you would ordinarily cringe at being thought so wanting. But with Neuvillette’s mouth, with the promise of what he is trying to wring from you--

Shame seems unimportant compared to the way he shudders at your hand in his hair, the way his tongue intensifies flicking against your clit.

He pulls back, breathing heavy, mouth glittering with your slick.

“I’m going to put a finger inside you,” he tells you, and you are grateful that he too sounds a little breathless. You cannot imagine just how embarrassing it would be to be the only one falling apart.

“I want . . . you,” you say, not without a touch of petulance, and Neuvillette lets out a hoarse little laugh. Still kneeling before you, he reaches up to touch your warmed face - his thumb, too, glitters with your arousal from the way he had held you open. You cannot bring yourself to care when he softly smears it across your bottom lip like an offering, and he lets out a shuddering groan at the sight of your tongue swiping it off.

“I want you,” he says. “Oh, you have no idea how much I want you. But I will not hurt you, sweet one. Let me prepare you.”

It feels very much like him; this way of taking charge, his firm words. This time, his hand curves up your inner thigh, and your breath catches as his finger slides between the valley of your sex, wetting itself in your slick and his saliva. Your toes curl into his plush carpet as he nudges your clit with his fingertip, as a soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth and he chuckles.

He slides one finger inside of you with no resistance at all. His earlier ministrations have seen to that. It’s a strange sensation, to have something inside that is not one of your own fingers (rather smaller, rather shorter than his) - but it is hardly unwelcome. You whisper out his name, your eyes closing, and Neuvillette makes a gentle noise of encouragement.

“That’s right,” he murmurs to you, as he slowly begins to pump his finger in and out of you. “You’re doing so well - you’re taking it beautifully. I’m going to put a second one in--”

He does exactly as he says, and the hand still knit in his hair tugs at the silvery strands a little harder. It is not that it is painful, but simply that it is a stretch you are unused to - and one, too, that you know will continue to intensify.

You feel a strange, cool shock at the entrance to your sex - and you chance a glance down and realise it is his wedding ring, pressing against you. The sight and the knowledge makes you shudder, and Neuvillette huffs out a noise of want in return.

You think of the cocks, straining beneath the vee of Neuvillette’s pelvis. You cannot see them now, but from the way they had looked when the two of you were just bathing, you feel certain they must be swollen stiff and hard, waiting for their own chance (and too, from the spots of colour on Neuvillette’s cheeks, the way his words have a strange, dry edge to them when he speaks). How will he put those inside of you? One at a time? Both at once?

“What are you thinking about?” Neuvillette asks, raising his gaze to meet your own, a smile tugging at the corners of the lips. “You suddenly tightened around me.”

“I--!” Your cheeks go hot, embarrassment making warmth seep down your back. Neuvillette laughs.

“No need to keep secrets,” he murmurs, slowly establishing another rhythm, a slow pump of his two fingers inside of you, scissoring slightly to open you up. “We are married now, sweet one. We can share everything. Mmm . . . let me see. Were you imagining my fingers to be my cock?”

“Neuvillette--” Your voice is a weak little protest, and you avert your gaze shyly even as you force the words out. “I was . . . will you put them both inside of me?” Your gaze slips over his face again, nervous to see his reaction - his eyes widen in surprise, but it is not at all a look of anger.

“Not tonight,” he tells you, and he smiles again. “I fear it may be too much for you. Ah, but if that’s what you want . . . my dear, I know you’d feel exquisite.”

His fingers, pumping in and out, curling inside of you. His words, velvet-draped and deep - the look of concentration on his face, insistent on nothing more than drawing pleasure forward from you. You feel the hot tension inside of you reach a breaking point - a pot, ready to bubble over.

“I must confess,” he breathes, leaning in, breath hitting your sex hot and close. “I was worried you might be afraid. I’m terribly glad to know what an effect the idea has on you.”

As he finishes the sentence, he lets his tongue drag out one slow, final lap of your clit - and it is just enough to push you over the final edge. The bubbling pot within you reaches boiling point - and the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt, like molten heat, suffuses you entirely. Your head falls back. A noise of sheer enjoyment falls wanton from your lips - your thighs and your hips and your entire body trembles and shakes in the pleasure, and you feel your sex pulsating and throbbing around the two of Neuvillette’s fingers that are inside of you.

“Lovely,” Neuvillette murmurs, watching you in awe, his fingers slowing down as he lets you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Oh, you’re . . . exquisite.”

“Neuvillette,” you say, collapsing back onto the bed, your breath coming in harsh pants. “I was afraid, at first. But I don’t think I could be. Not knowing what you’re like now. Not anymore.”

“Sweet thing.” Neuvillette stands. He steps forward and you see him again - his cocks are indeed straining, silvery precome dripping from the dual tips and smeared over the flat planes of his stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me. May I . . . ?”

He does not need to ask. You think you would grant him whatever he asked for - you cannot imagine Neuvillette overstepping your boundaries, when he has been so sweet and so careful and so guiding for as long as you’ve known him, even knowing he could do whatever he wanted to you and nobody would blame him. But it warms your heart that he asks even so.

“Please do,” you breathe, and you spread your thighs wider to accommodate him on the bed.

His hands scoop under your hips, his palms firm on your ass as he moves you higher up the bed, ensuring that your head and shoulders are propped up with a mound of pillows. Even with his cocks practically twitching, he prioritises you before himself, and you cannot resist another show of appreciation, wrapping your hand around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss.

He groans into your mouth, the movement clearly welcome - but when he mouths at you now, he is far messier than he has been before, his teeth just a little more present. You think he must be losing some of his control, and as his cocks nudge against your inner thighs, you are proved correct.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your lips, pulling back just far enough to be able to speak. “I cannot hold myself back a moment longer--”

“Please, Neuvillette,” you whisper, fingers still in his hair.

His lower cock nudges against your sex, the ring of muscle that will grant him entrance - and as he opens you up, his second cock rubs over the swollen over-sensitive nub of your clit and you whine.

He covers your whine with another kiss. He eases into you, moment by moment, inch by inch - you have nothing to compare it to, but you think from the slow tempo he goes at and the way his gaze keeps flicking over you, checking you’re alright, he must be larger than average.

But he has prepared you well. The stretch is an ache, but a pleasant one - it does not send painful shockwaves all through you. Your thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him as close as you can manage, and Neuvillette sighs.

“Will you kiss me again?” He murmurs, so softly you almost do not hear him. The request makes your heart feel like bursting in your chest - the soft way he looks at you, his unwillingness to pull away from you, his desire to be as close to you as he can even when he is buried inside of you.

You do. Arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands find purchase on your hips. His mouth and yours dance against one another - his tongue learning yours as if he is learning a new language.

He fucks you like that.

He is not rough with you, that first night; he does not, as you have heard so many new husbands do, take you and have you and ignore what you might want. Neuvillette cherishes you.

The slow rock of his hips, indulgent in their rhythm. The way he kisses you. He is chasing his own release, but he does not feel any need to fuck into you with abandon. At least not yet.

But time ticks on. The two of you seem to meld into one entity, and the kissing and the fucking grows sharper at the edges. You feel that Neuvillette is hovering on something, his expression almost desperate, as he rearranges the angle of his hips and the speed of his thrusts.

“Please,” he whispers, broken-voiced. “I’m close--”

You let go of him and he lets out a noise of distress at the lack of contact, a noise that makes you shiver with the idea of how much power you may one day have over him. But instead of anything else, one of your hands darts between you, to take a firm grip on his second cock. Neuvillette hisses through his teeth at your hand, hot and firm.

You do not know what you’re doing, not really, but that does not seem to bother Neuvillette as he increases the speed of his hips. In fact, he does most of the work - fucking his lower cock inside of you, hot and deep and wet, and fucking the cock atop it into your fist. You manage to work out a kind of twisting motion that makes him growl in the back of his throat--

It’s a fascinating noise, really. It makes you think of him as an animal, something feral and possessive - and you wonder what, later on, you may learn about him--

But then your name is falling from his lips like a prayer, and his cock is twitching inside of you and in your grip, and your back arches at the same time as he leans forward and sinks his teeth into your shoulder--

(Almost like a claiming bite. Almost like a mark to say that you are his).

And both of you come, together, in great waves and pants and gasps of breath. His come paints your fist and the round softness of your stomach at the same time as it paints inside of you, your body once more pulsating around his cock as if it never wants to let you go.

Like a tide on the shore; like a moon rising high over the lakes of Fontaine. Neuvillette lets himself lay atop of you, his head against your heart, his breath coming in great heaves.

You do not need to think this time; you simply lift your unsoiled hand and begin to stroke the silver of his hair in slow, careful motions. From the back of his throat again comes that noise, something like a purr and something like a chirrup. His eyes close contentedly.

“Neuvillette?” You whisper into the darkness, and your husband makes a soft ‘mm?’ of response. “You really . . . could have had anyone. Why did you choose me?”

“Hmm, sweet one?” He lifts his head from your chest and looks down at you like you have asked him why the sky is blue. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I certainly did have my pick . . . I perhaps wouldn’t have chosen to marry if Lady Furina hadn’t been so insistent, but I was lucky enough to be able to choose anybody I wanted. And I had seen you.” He shakes his head, a huff of laughter falling from his mouth. “Like I said - I do have eyes.”

Your cheeks feel hot. The thought of being coveted by Monsieur Neuvillette, when you had worried about your body and your match and your future so often it felt like second nature--

“Oh dear,” he says, looking down at the two of you - at the sweat-slicked hair, at the come drying on your inner thigh. “I fear we’ll need to have another bath before bed.”

“And you won’t mind if I join you?”

He chuckles.

“Why,” he says. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

#neuvillette x reader #neuvillette smut #writing #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #chubby reader #not sfw text #commissioned work #chubby reader posting

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caamboys · 5 months ago

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What will your future spouse love about you?

pile 1-3

PILE ONE

🎶 blood orange - saint🎶

“ i like to see you live for more, you said it before, you wish id seen the saint you were before “

what they like about you mentally?

they like that you’re curious, energetic and a bit careless when you talk. they admire that you allow yourself to be who you are unapologetically. your future spouse has a more rigid, contained approach to life. they view you as someone who doesn’t hold themselves back, who speaks and acts freely without restraint. something about this pile screams freedom, that is what they like about you personality wise. when you stand on what is right, and don’t hesitate to call out what is wrong. even if it causes strife or problems, they admire your ability to speak the truth and be yourself despite the pressure of society. they might like to bicker or tease you just so you guys can have banter together, they think it’s hot to see you be fierce for what you believe in. they like to debate with you.

what do they like about you physically?

something about your appearance or demeanor is otherworldly. you have a dreamy aspect to the way you look, sometimes when they look at you it feels surreal to them. you have an aesthetically pleasing ethereal vibe to the way you dress, or even look naturally. this pile might have sleepy eyes, or dark under eyes, or even dark eyes in general and they think that it’s hot. i see here theyre very attracted to you when you’re relaxed or in a state of calmness. im seeing someone sitting, with bed hair and sleep in their eyes, and your future spouse absolutely simping over it. another thing they will like is if this pile may have gone through some sort of transformation or change. they admire that about you as well. if you haven’t had any big transformation, they like when you take on different aesthetics and constantly switch up the way you dress or the makeup styles you do. you’ll go through multiple phases style-wise while you guys date and they’ll love it.

overall energy: pile one, I kept channeling so many different personality traits, so many different physical attributes. it was so hard to hone in one certain aspect they enjoy, because the next card would be describing a completely different energy. you have many different qualities your future spouse appreciates all the same. at first I was channeling them being attracted to you in a youthful energetic energy, then i started channeling them liking you when you’re in a darker energy. your future spouse just likes you overall lmao.

side note: you’re multidimensional and your future spouse is highly aware of this, and they admire you for it so don’t be afraid to show off all the sides of yourself. I love the polarity between what they prefer mentally versus physically. mentally they admire your more intellectually charged energy, while physically they like your dreamy relaxed energy. you can shapeshift around them! they like that lol

pile two

🎶ILLIT - Magnetic 🎶

🎶“This time i want You you you you, like it’s magnetic“

“ baby, you’re my crush, you’re my crush “ 🎶

what do they like about you mentally?

they love your optimism. either you or your future spouse has dealt with or currently deals with anxiety, depression or grief. they admire your ability to overcome dark things and continue to be hopeful and forgiving. you have a sense of mental peace in the midst of the all the anguish in the world, or even in the anguish in your life that they can’t help but find attractive. your ability to remain harmonious, kind and loving despite hardships around you is something they love. you have a sense of renewal, uplifting and raising things that were once low. it’s giving phoenix rising from the ashes. your ability to sacrifice darkness in order to create light is something they admire.

what they like about you physically?

pile two, your future spouse thinks your eye candy😭. I literally channeled the word “ trophy prize”. they think dating you is a once in a lifetime opportunity because youre so attractive. they loveeee your hair. some specific confirmation for this pile are curly hair, blonde hair, facial hair; if none of those resonate don’t mind that because hair in general is something they absolutely adore about you. they love your style, something about it gives effortless and confident to them. I just heard your future spouse feels proud walking next to you. another thing i channeled was age difference, so if you’re younger than them they like that about you, and if you’re older than them they like that too, any age gap in general just switch to what applies. another thing i heard is the way you walk, as if you’re walking on air. they like your legs. okay pile two whatever makes you feel more confident around them, whether it be a certain makeup look, a certain dress or outfit, the way you style your hair is KEY to their attraction. something you do that makes you feel confident, whatever that may be, is what will make them simp over you. i just keep hearing your confidence is so sexy to them. your future spouse definitely puts you on a pedestal.

overall energy: they love your LIGHT. this pile was very easy and breezy, and i feel like it’s reflecting you. when you’re in a happy, positive energy they feel like it radiates out of you. when you’re playful and lighthearted around your future spouse this what they love about you. this was such a cute read oh my gosh

side note: whoever your future spouse is, please reaffirm and validate to them you are NOT out of their league. like i previously mentioned they definitely put you on a pedestal, i would just hate the idea of them feeling unworthy or insecure because of how highly they view you. so give them some extra validation and compliments when you come across them.

pile three

🎶 get on your knees - Nicki Minaj ft Ariana Grande🎶

🎶“ baby just get on your knees “

“ say pretty please, say pretty please “🎶

what do they like about you mentally?

I’m not gonna lie, pile three your future spouse is a little dark! & i think they’re attracted to the darkness within you. they don’t like things pure and clean, unlike like pile two they prefer things to be a bit heavier. they like when you’re obsessive or possessive over them. I think your spouse has very similar thought patterns as you, so it’s a balance and flow between the two of you. reciprocating what the other is giving out. the energy feels heavily attached to one another. they love your darker energy. they want to explore all of your kinks, and fantasies. this is kinda fucked up but 😭 they like it when you get jealous over them. like i said this energy feels heavily reciprocated so you guys could be the couple who enjoys teasing and making each other jealous. I don’t think it’s solely your future spouse who likes this dark energy, i think it’s you both sharing in it. that aside, they like how you’re relationship material, the way you view loyalty and commitment is attractive to them. they like to comfort you, and reassure you. they like when you think of them as your protector, your guardian.

what do they like about you physically?

height difference. you could be shorter than them, or taller than them but either way they love that about you. if you have round features, like a round face, or big round eyes they love that. im getting that your future spouse is incredibly attracted to your body. if you’re a woman, they really love your boobs. if you’re a man, they love your hands. I’m just getting something about your body shape. curvy or petite, they’re very attracted to your body shape. if you workout they love that about you. that aside, your future spouse thinks its incredibly cute to watch you think hard about something. I’m channeling someone staring off into the distance with a focused, scrunched up face as they ponder something, and your future spouse thinking “ they’re so adorable“ lmao. they think you’re cute when you get angry or irritated.

overall energy: this gives me such youthful,immature puppy love energy lmao! but it’s cute! your future spouse likes your clingy, possessive, and fiery traits. they like to see you get passionate about something, when you have a spark in your eyes.

side note: be careful of codependency in this relationship !! 🗿

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qwimblenorrisstan · 2 months ago

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Subservient | Azriel x Reader

Summary: Rhys’ reputation in Hewn City is less than stellar, so when an orphanage becomes overwhelmed, he offers to take some in. His plan doesn’t turn out how he expected when he’s instead sent you, an employee there, sent to scope Rhys out before sending children to him. And in true High Lord fashion, he unceremoniously dumps you off on his brothers.

Word Count: ~ 3.4k

Warnings: Abuse, starvation, dehydration, child abuse, bruises, scars, injuries, traumatized reader, orphans, but it ends with some fluff I promise

A/N: thank you so much to anon who sent this req in, it def gave me the inspiration I needed, hope you enjoy<3

Requests are open!

When you first arrived, the first thought that Azriel had was that you were a sorry sight, hair clearly previously having been mangled and just brushed in time, clothes old and worn by others before you, eyes tired and dim as you didn’t even try to take in your surroundings, looking completely out of it, even with the High Lord of Night Court sitting only twenty feet from you, lounging on a throne.

Azriel could pick up the subtlest shift of Rhys’ scent, the slight tinge of worry as he took you in, despite the sensual smirk that remained on his face, and his lazy posture like a cat spread out, stretching.

But they were in Hewn City, and Rhys couldn’t afford to be himself in Hewn City, not yet anyway, not until the next generation of Fae that was less cold and brittle arrived. Which could take centuries, at the least. Even now, with the plan that was unfolding, it wasn’t likely the citizens would see him as anything worth their time or support.

And as he watched you silently trudge up to the throne, giving the barest bow in recognition only when the older Fae elbowed you harshly in your too-thin figure, he wondered why he had even thought this would be a good idea. Sure, Rhys didn’t have the best reputation in the Court of Nightmares, and the citizens were angry after the damage done to their city, and the lives lost.

The orphanage had taken in more children than they could handle, requiring help from citizens who weren’t the most willing to serve.

This left Rhys with an idea, one that everyone else in the Inner Circle had given their support for eventually, albeit begrudgingly. He took two birds with one stone and took in some of the orphans to both raise his reputation and solve the orphanage size problem.

The only issue with it had been that the orphanage, despite its problems, and the obvious displays of uncleanliness, lack of employees, and even some abuse, refused to give Rhys any children, and though the High Lord could just override their order, that wouldn’t help with the issue of his reputation.

And so they’d agreed to send a worker, one that had grown up in the orphanage and lived there still, working full time to help the children. And look how well that had turned out, with this malnourished, beaten female showing up, barely even alive.

Rhys didn’t speak, his eyes, unsmiling, on the male who’d led you here, forcing him to speak first. The tension grew thick.

”Here she is, my Lord.”

He said, voice smooth despite the hint of nerves Azriel could detect under it, and in his body language. He was fidgeting, palms sweaty, scent blocked with some sort of sour spray commonly sold here in Hewn City, but Azriel could pick up the notes of fear in it, the anxiety.

Rhys watched silently, waiting just to watch the man slowly become more afraid, before speaking.

”Very well, then. Azriel, escort her to the House.”

He said with a simple wave of his hand, and despite the surprise that rose in Azriel about the fact that Rhys hadn’t called the man out or exposed him in the slightest for the obvious mistreatment of the woman, he pushed it back down, walking over to you and gingerly picking your frail form up as if it might shatter with the slightest amount of force.

A silent winnow to the House of Wind, the shadows gently exploring you, reporting every little injury they found, the dehydration and starvation evident in your body, not to mention the clear lack of sleep from the dark eye bags you possessed.

”What’s your name?”

He tried to ask it softly, so as not to startle you, like talking to a cornered animal, but you weren't very responsive. He sighed near silently, walking to a table, the House pulling out a chair as he set you down in it. A glass of water appeared on the table, and that was the thing that seemed to make your eyes light up again, even if just a little bit. Maybe just natural instincts to get water after going so long without.

He gently grasped the water, bringing it to your lips as they parted, tilting the cup slightly to let the water flow down into your mouth, and you swallowed every drop eagerly, parched tongue that felt like sandpaper finally getting the hydration it screamed for.

You panted as he pulled the cup away, hand going to grasp it to bring it back, but he shook his head and you realized the cup was empty. The House, seeming to sense your thirstiness, decided to help, and your eyes widened when you saw water magically filling the cup. Azriel watched, a small smile playing on his lips at your awe and surprise.

”The House is sentient,”

He explained, voice low and quiet. Gentle.

”It decides that we need a bit of help, sometimes.”

You brought the cup back to your lips, drinking the liquid all down as your hand shakily held the cup. The House filled it up, and you drank again and repeated it until your stomach felt full of all the water it could hold, and you couldn’t keep anything else down.

“Full?”

The shadowsinger asked, and you nodded hesitantly. He seemed to expect it.

”You’ll eat in the morning. For now..”

He glanced outside, at the darkness that had swept over the sky quickly, before turning back to you.

”I’ll take you to your room.”

It was another silent moment, a walk, as he offered a hand you didn’t take at first, only carefully taking after you tried to stand up and your knees buckled immediately. It was more like his arm around your waist, at this point, with how he was holding half of your weight up. Your eyes grew heavy, even as you gaped at the paintings adorning the walls, the carpet and rich wood beneath your feet, the fancy wallpapers and furniture. Just selling one of those pieces of furniture could pay for probably a decade’s worth of food for the orphanage.

A fancy wooden door came into view with a carved siding and intricate leaf patterns with flowers carved around the handle, it opened for the both of you as he walked in. The bed in the center of the room was rich, but looked comfortable, just the way you liked it with the right pillows, blankets, sheets, and everything. There was a side table and a large closet, as well as another door you assumed led to a bathroom. You could’ve sworn you heard music playing somewhere down the hall.

As you walked in, he remained at the doorway, not going to enter your space without your permission as you leaned against the wall, slowly making your way to the bed until you sat down on the edge of it, still in your dirty clothes.

You were too tired to care.

He turned to leave, hand on the door handle before you spoke.

”Y/N.”

He glanced at you, head tilting ever so slightly to the side, eyes narrowing just a bit.

”My name,”

You clarified, voice raspy and thin, but slowly shedding its rough layer, smoothing over with every word you spoke.

“It’s Y/N.”

He looked at you for a long moment, hazel eyes peering into yours, before he gave a small nod, and walked away, the door clicking shut behind him.

That night had been the first time you’d spoken to any of them, and also one of your last nights seeing Azriel. He’d been sent away on a mission, only giving you a brief introduction to his brother Cassian, a big, brutish-looking man with a smirk, who had forced you to eat properly every day and even convinced you to help out with the exercises today.

Thanks to the daily intake of protein and nutrients you got three times a day now, as well as water, your thin figure had filled out nicely, and you were outside, detangled and freshly washed hair tied back into a braid that the red-haired priestess had done for you after watching you struggle with doing it on your own. You’d already forgotten her name. Something that started with G.

Cassian was trying to help you with the daily stretches that his mate, Nesta, had supposedly originally started with. Your body wasn’t as frail as before but was stiff as a board due to the long hours of being forced into a wooden chair, or the days spent bent over tables folding laundry or over counters doing dishes, not to mention all the paperwork for an orphanage…

You weren’t flexible. At all.

“Here, try to move your hand slowly down, even just centimeter by centimeter.”

He was trying to get you to touch your toes, but you only frowned, hand refusing to go past the bottom of your knee as you tried to push it further, your already aching back screaming in protest.

The three other females out were practicing their swordplay, or whatever one would call the weapons they were wielding. You could hear steel on steel clinging from here, even, and you saw how Cassian wanted to join them. How his eyes kept glancing up at them, a hint of longing in them, maybe even a gleam of lust at the thought of seeing his mate sparring.

And you felt bad for holding him back from that, bad enough that you just wanted to get this last stupid stretch over so you could go back inside and quit wasting his time. With a little mental shove, you pushed your hand down further, jerking it down and-

Something hurt. Bad. A slight sound of something popping almost, and a sharp pain in the back of your leg. Years of controlling your expression from the harsh punishments of the older women in the orphanage came back as you forced it into a neutral, fingertips gracing your toe as you slowly shifted back into a standing position.

Cassian must’ve been too focused on the other females to notice your subtle limp, or how all of your weight was focused on one leg. He raised a brow, glancing back at you when he saw you shift up.

“I touched it.”

You said simply, and he grinned, genuine pride in his eyes gleaming so brightly that it hurt flashing as he nodded.

“You’re making good progress, go take a break. We’ll pick it up tomorrow, yeah?”

You gave a nod, and he patted you gently on the back as he jogged past, picking up a sword and launching straight into sparring with Nesta as you managed to get into the House.

Cassian might’ve been a bit oblivious, but the House of Wind was anything but. Immediately, a chair appeared right near the entrance, and a strong sudden wind pushed you into it, a cold cushion appearing right beneath the aching spot in your thigh as you sat down.

The chair began moving, going straight into your room, where you shifted onto the bed, sitting on the edge.

Strangely though, the House didn’t do anything further. Didn’t provide any ice, or anything to compress it with, so you supposed it was up to you. Usually, it provided anything you needed badly.

Shifting up, your hand went to gently explore the back of your thigh, tenderly pushing against your pants to find the spot that was aching so badly, and soon enough, you found it. A sharp pain shot through your nerves as you grunted and flinched at it, hand immediately going away.

You tried to stand up, but your knee on that right thigh completely buckled, and you fell to the floor in a heap, vision swimming.

Your eyes fluttered shut as you loosed a deep breath, frustration blooming through you.

“Need some help?”

A familiar low voice asked, and you opened your eyes, only to see Azriel standing right by one of the windows, head tilted to the side, hazel eyes examining. His shadows whirled around him, some carefully approaching you. You froze under his gaze, eyes widening.

“How long have you been standing there?”

You asked, and he began to approach, long strides making their way to you as he crouched down in front of you. He hummed in thought, lips pursing before he answered.

“Long enough to know you’re hurt. Can I pick you up?”

He questioned, eyes peering into yours, asking for consent. After just picking you straight up that first introduction without asking, he figured he might’ve not made the best impression, and he planned to undo that. Or maybe he was just overthinking this whole thing. Either way, consent is still a good thing to get.

You nodded, glancing down at your leg as you began trying to squirm, but with a single shake of his head, Azriel shut it down. His hands wrapped around you, slowly lifting you up and carefully to avoid your hurt thigh as he took you to the bathroom, sitting you down on the toilet seat.

“Do you know what’s..wrong with it?”

You asked, and he glanced at your right thigh, shadows flitting around him.

“I’d assume a hamstring tear. Hopefully just a partial one.”

You gulped nearly audibly at that. An entire hamstring tear, just from some stupid stretches that you couldn’t get down. You’d bothered this family enough, and to have Azriel, probably fresh from a mission and tired as hell, having to help you with this…it was more than embarrassing as well.

“I’m going to need to…”

He swallowed awkwardly, gesturing to your pants, and you grimaced. He must’ve noticed, because he quickly offered up a solution.

“I can have the shadows do it, they won’t hurt you. Promise.”

You nodded at that, a breathy little-

“Okay,”

-escaping your lips. Azriel turned away as the cool touch of the shadows, at first made you shudder, though you eventually adjusted as they unbuttoned the pants, slowly slipping them off, making sure the material didn’t put any pressure against your injured leg. They also made sure to tug your shirt down to cover your underwear, which you silently thanked them for. You didn’t need the shadowsinger seeing all that.

He eventually turned back around, probably having been signaled by his shadows that they were done. His gaze remained respectful, making sure to never wander as he bent down, glancing up at the bottom of your thigh and frowning to himself, before nodding.

“Torn hamstring. We’ll keep pressure and ice on it while I wait for Madja.”

You blinked.

“We? Also, who’s Madja?”

You asked, brows furrowed in mild confusion.

“Madja is our family healer. She’s been doing it for centuries now, I sent my shadows to contact her the moment I saw you injured. And you aren’t going to be staying all alone while injured. It’s a ‘we’ situation.”

He replied bluntly, somehow still not a rude sort of blunt, though. Your cheeks turned red.

“You didn’t have to do that, it’s not that bad. Really, I could’ve managed-“

He cut you off before you even got the rest of the sentence out.

“You collapsed from the pain while trying to stand up. It was that bad. Despite whatever you experienced while at that orphanage may have led you to believe, you are not subservient, and you are allowed to have problems.”

He said almost sternly, and you sat there, shocked for a moment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You said, swallowing down the lump that formed in your throat, and he gave you a doubtful look, moving to sit down so he wasn’t towering over you, settling on the floor across from where you were sitting.

“I’m not stupid, Y/N. I see the way you clean the dishes off after dinners, help set the table before them, offer to babysit Nyx for Feyre, clean the weapons the Valkyries use in training for them…it’s obvious.”

His hazel eyes met yours yet again, and you tried to swallow that lump down, failing, again.

“It’s hard not to try and help out when I’m just stuck here as some charity case for the High Lord.”

There it was. The truth finally came out.

It felt bad saying it out loud, worse than it sounded in your head, but it got rid of some of the pressure in your chest finally saying it.

The orphans were starving and dehydrated, abused, and here you were, complaining about getting unlimited access to food, water, exercise, and plenty of opportunities those children would’ve gobbled up, opportunities you would’ve gobbled up at their age, had you gotten the chance.

Azriel didn’t look surprised. In fact, he looked like he’d been expecting you to say this eventually.

“It’s just—being stuck here, with all these things, when the children at the orphanage need them more than me, with the food shortages and dehydration, and Mother knows the abuse going on behind the scenes—it just feels wrong.”

He let you talk, watching you rant, while a pack of ice appeared on the floor, given by the House. When you finally managed to calm down, tears still welling in your eyes from frustration and anger, he stood up, hand resting on your shoulder.

“I know.”

He said quietly, and you sniffled, glancing up at him.

“What?”

He hesitated, before answering your question.

“I knew the orphanage wasn’t right. I’ve known for a while. It wasn’t about a charity case, or that’s not why I originally suggested it. I needed a whistleblower to shut it down.”

Your eyes widened at his words.

“You want me to…”

“Only if you want to.”

The decision was yours.

Would you keep your mouth shut about the things you’d experienced as a child and employee at the orphanage, where you’d been trapped and abused for years, or would you finally stop being subservient and ignoring your own needs?

Nearly six months later, the final court proceedings went through.

It was shut down, and the children all relocated to Velaris’ orphanage funded by Feyre’s earnings from her art studio. After several bruises, scars, deformities, and the obvious malnourishment and illness in most children and employees were pointed out, not to mention some first-hand testimonies led by you, and a handful of other employees and children, it was an open and shut case.

It was a wonder no one had uncovered it earlier.

Almost as if they’d been purposefully ignoring it.

But it was over now, you thought, as you stood in one of the many balconies at the House of Wind, looking at the view over Velaris. A warm presence made itself known as cool shadows began slithering up your arms that were on the railing.

He stood beside you, also taking in the view. His scarred hands, unbound by the usual gloves he wore when getting home from missions, rested on the railing. Your cold hands slowly crept up to his, fingers brushing, both of you holding your breath as your eyes met, and your fingers intertwined slowly, carefully.

Gently, but not because you were fragile, not because Azriel thought you would easily break, he'd already learned that even when you’d been put through trial and tribulation time after time you came out dented, but whole. It was gentle because you both needed a slight reprieve from the world’s chaos and violence. From the horrors that lurked in your mind, prowling and waiting for the right moment to come back up, unwelcome and unwanted.

His wings shifted, one curling around you as he subtly shifted you closer, the limp less pronounced in your sideways step toward him.

Your free hand made its way to his cheek, softly stroking with the pad of your thumb, the barely developed calluses from your training with Cassian a soothing feeling for Azriel. His free hand made to lightly stroke your cheek, letting you take the lead. Giving you a choice.

You leaned in closer, and he bent down slightly, just so you wouldn’t have to rise on your toes to reach his face. Your lips brushed softly against his, a tentative touch, but not unsure as his reaction of kissing you back spurred you on.

And for a moment, both of you intertwined beneath the sky, everything was alright.

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