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rememberwren · 3 months ago

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A Complete Set (Whatever That Means) || 2

A continuation of Skin Deep. Part one of this sequel is here.

About this: previous warnings apply, oral sex (f receiving), alcohol, gross imperfections, not a single nipple unfortunately, an eyebrow though. For @/moody-alcoholic, I hope this manages to quench even the tiniest portion of your thirst. 1 more part left. 7k

“Simon?”

“Hm.”

“Are you seeing anybody else?”

Simon looks up at you. His hair is getting long, falling over his forehead and looking nearly brunet in the dim lighting. You don’t think he’s cut it since the two of you have started dating.

He’s been drawing for half the night, hunched over with the sketchpad in his lap, doing terrible things to his own posture and blocking his own lighting all at once. When he answers you, it’s in that dry tone that lets you know he thinks you’ve said something funny or clever: “No.”

A knot in your chest loosens. It’s hard to believe you worried over such a question for so long just to receive such a simple, earnest answer. He goes back to sketching.

You content yourself with this and stretch your legs out until your toes touch his thigh at the other end of the sofa. His mouth twitches, but he keeps working.

Six months pass, and how do you celebrate? You climb topless onto Simon’s lap, eager and anxious in equal measure. Your nipple piercing had stopped hurting months ago (save for the time you had snagged it on a cable knit sweater and nearly seen Jesus), but you had read online that piercings heal from the outside inward, and as such you had made every attempt possible to leave the thing alone even when all you wanted to do was play with it.

In his own way of celebrating, Simon had bought you your first new barbell: a black one with black gemmed studs at each end. You couldn’t help but notice that it looked similar to his, only with a more delicate, feminine touch.

“Will you change it for me?” you ask him. Your hands are shaking.

“Alright. Let me wash my hands.” He shifts you off of his lap and disappears into the bathroom where you hear the faucet turn on. You cross your arms over your breasts, feeling silly being half naked without Simon in the room. Your foot bounces impatiently, but you know that if cleanliness were a love language, it would likely be Simon’s.

Not that he had told you he loved you—nor had you told him. You had promised yourself that you would wait until he said it first (the only sure-fire way to avoid coming across as overeager and scaring him off). Still, there were a thousand ways in a day that Simon made you feel as if he loved you: the way he would go out to start your car in the wintery mornings when your remote start stopped working; the way he always offered you the first bite of his food if you weren’t sharing a meal; the way he’d crack open your drinks before handing them to you. Was it wrong of you to try to read between the lines?

Simon comes back and tugs you onto his lap again. His hands look huge compared to the jewelry through your breast as he dexterously works the ball free from the barbell. He has the hands of a surgeon: steady and calm. You close your eyes in anticipation of pain, but there is none; it just feels alien, sensitive whenever his calloused fingers brush over your pebbled nipple, even as he removes the barbell itself.

Taking the sanitized jewelry, he carefully puts it in and screws the stud in place.

“That didn’t hurt at all,” you say, reaching down to tug softly on the barbell. Still, no pain.

“Great,” he says, eyes on your breasts. He grips your hips. “Up, now. C’mon, up.”

He tugs you up onto your knees so that you’re the perfect height for him to take your nipple into his burning mouth. You shiver, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other burying itself in his hair, gripping softly to keep his mouth in place. If you had worried that getting the piercing would make you less sensitive, you were wrong. He tugs on the jewelry gently with his fucking teeth and God, holy shit, fucking hell, definitely not less sensitive.

“Been waiting to do this,” he says, nuzzling the skin between your breasts as he gives you a moment to catch your breath. “Six months of hell.”

“Yeah?” You pant lamely, chest heaving.

He hums. His thumbs stroke beneath your breasts along the sternum tattoo he gave you—a favorite part of you for him to touch—as his lips find your nipple again, lashing softly with his tongue. His hands have begun to tremble where they slide down the curves of your sides and to your hips, touch soft and worshipful as he brings you down to rest your weight against the hard line of his cock still confined in his jeans. The shaking says more than a thousand of his words ever could.

“I want you,” he mutters. “Say yes.”

“Yes, God, yes.”

Simon guides you off of his lap, kneeling down into the space between the couch and the coffee table. He pushes the table backwards with a little more force than is necessary when there isn’t enough room for his long legs and accidentally sends a cup full of charcoal pencils tipping over onto the carpet. You snort with laughter. He peels your leggings and panties off and drags you to the edge of the couch, pressing your thighs open wide.

Getting head from partners in the past had been a fraught, mostly unenjoyable experience. Even your first few times with Simon had been tense, with him quickly moving on to something else after noticing your inability to relax. A less eager man might have counted his blessings and moved on, but Simon’s gentle persistence had gone a long way toward reassuring you that he truly wanted to please you this way. It had gone a long way toward reassuring you that you could let him.

He spreads you apart, thumbs slipping against your slick folds, heated gaze pinpointed on your most intimate parts before he leans in and licks a broad stripe over your entrance and up to your clit. You shut your eyes (and cover your face for good measure). His warm breath fans against your pussy as he laughs. He could be mean and pull your hands away, but he lets you hide this way and you are grateful for it.

Simon takes his time mapping each part of you with his mouth, nose brushing your clit whenever he doesn’t have his lips sealed over it. Your thighs shake, toes curled, as he pulls whines and choked gasps from your throat.

You peek through your fingers when you feel him shifting beneath you to find that he’s worked his cock from his jeans and is jerking off, only noticeable by the tell-tale rhythmic motion of his arm against your calf.

“Jesus, Simon,” you whine.

He makes a little sound of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, shifting on his knees to change the angle of his mouth against you. Something about him so unashamedly enjoying himself makes it easier for you to enjoy yourself too, to let your hands come away from your face and thread them through his hair.

“Can we fuck?” you breathe, aching inside deep where his tongue can’t reach.

He nods against you and kneels up to kiss you. You still aren’t used to the taste of yourself in his mouth, but it’s growing less foreign—and nothing could ever make you turn away from one of Simon’s kisses.

He pulls you off the couch onto your knees, his legs spread to either side of your own. You arch your back, feeling his cock brush against the back of your thighs. Two of his thick fingers slip inside you, testing your give and your wetness. He twists them; turns to hook them against that soft, vulnerable spot inside you that makes your legs shake. Simon works a third finger into you, a stretch that your body struggled to take before but which it accepts eagerly now, the sting welcome and familiar.

“Fuck. I need a condom,” he rasps.

“Just pull out,” you say.

You can sense him rolling his eyes. Your fondness for the (dangerous) pull-out method had been formally noted by him and thus far rejected at every turn.

“Don’t insult me,” he mutters. He grabs your hand and guides it between your own legs. “Be good and keep yourself warm. I’ll be right back.”

He’s barely gone long enough for you to stroke your fingers through your folds, but when he returns (flashing the intact condom package at you like he always does), he watches you for an endless, lingering moment.

“I like that,” he says at last, taking his spot behind you again, condom in place.

“Like what?”

“Watching you touch yourself.” The head of his cock nudges your entrance. He finds the right angle and slips inside you, stretching your walls to make room for himself. You groan, your fingers digging into the couch cushion. It stings a little, right towards the end, but he just softly saws himself in and out of your pussy, soothing the ache with pleasure. His words go completely over your head.

He reaches so deep inside you, like with his every thrust his cock bullies the air out of your lungs. The slick sounds are lewd, keeping time with your moans and sighs as his fingertips dig into the flesh of your hips, manhandling you further onto the couch to the perfect height for him to fuck into you, your knees barely skimming the carpet.

Your hand ends up crushed between your pelvis and the couch. You let your fingers find your clit and the touch reminds your body of how close it is, that coil deep in your belly stretched tight and ready to release. Your fingers trail down to where his cock pistons in and out of you, and at your touch he groans, slows to a smooth drag, his length slippery with your own arousal.

“Touch yourself, not me,” he chides, his voice rough. “I’m close enough.”

“I’m close enough,” you say.

He flops against your back, nearly crushing you with his weight to hook his chin over your shoulder and ask: “Then what the fuck are we waiting for?”

You can barely draw in the breath to laugh, and it’s only worse when you cum. You bury your face into the couch cushions, giggling, fingers rubbing a gentle, hectic rhythm against your clit as your pussy spasms around him. He snorts at your laughter, a soft quiet exhale against the back of your neck. Then he cums, his thrusts sloppy and hard, turning his head at the last moment to bite your shoulder lazily.

“Sex makes you so weird,” you pant. Your face hurts from smiling.

“You like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

He ties off the condom and throws it away. The two of you sit naked on the couch together, curled up. It’s a little alien to be this open about your body with someone and to have them be so open about their body in return, but it’s a good strangeness. So much about loving Simon is.

“I need to get the other one pierced now,” you mention, toying with his unpierced nipple. “Have to complete the set.”

“I never did.”

“You’re incomplete. Don’t you know?”

He snorts. “I feel quite fulfilled, thanks.”

“Please Simon?” you ask. “I want to.”

“Don’t ever say please. I’ll text Soap in the morning,” Simon says, trailing his fingers up and down the length of your arm, making goosebumps appear.

You hesitate. Should you tell him what you’d been thinking about for the last several months? Would it offend him to know that you didn’t want to go to Johnny for any more piercings?

Whether it offended him or not, your pride couldn’t rest easily going back to the tiny room behind the curtain in Skin Deep. While there had been only a few other tense interactions between you and Johnny since Simon’s birthday (and usually he seemed to favor outright ignoring your existence), the situation had not improved.

“Simon—I think I’d rather go somewhere else for my other nipple. To someone other than Johnny, I mean.”

Simon frowns. “What’d Johnny do.”

He phrases it like that—more of a statement and less of a question, immediately assuming that Johnny is at fault.

“It’s just—it’s like I said on your birthday. He doesn’t like me much.”

Simon turns to look you in the eye. When your gaze tries to skirt away, he lets out an irritated breath through his nose—but doesn’t fight you. Simon always lets you run. Maybe because he knows his legs are long enough to catch you. “You really feel like that?”

“You’ve never noticed?”

“Thought it was in my head,” he mutters. Then he says the most dreaded words he possibly could: “I’ll talk to him.”

“No!” you nearly shout. You struggle to lower your voice to something more appropriate for indoors, your heart tap-dancing to an anxious beat inside your chest. Just trying to picture Johnny’s irritated expression at any of Simon’s potential efforts to talk to him made your stomach turn over. “I mean—don’t. Really. It’s fine.”

“It’s not. I need you two to get along. You and Johnny—you’re the most important people in my life,” he says baldly. His honesty does something to your lungs—empties them, crushes them. You only just realize the position that you’re putting Simon in, and it makes you feel about two inches tall. How could you let your petty problems with Johnny potentially get in the way of their longtime friendship? Their brotherhood?

“I’m begging you, Simon,” you plead. “Promise me you won’t talk to him. Just, give me more time to get to know him or something.”

“Can't promise that.” He stands up and stretches, joints popping as you stare at him, your stomach tearing itself to pieces at this knowledge. This is not how this conversation was meant to end. But he disappears into the bedroom before you can gather your wits enough to say another word.

There is nothing like sleeping beside Simon, his arm beneath your head, your body turned and cradled against his side, a leg thrown over his thighs. His heart is as slow and steady as his breaths, his calloused thumb tracing a line back and forth on your naked side, a line which grows slower and slower as he drifts closer to sleep.

You ruin it like this: “Simon?”

“Hm.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“If you got’a.”

“On your birthday, you said that women meant for you sometimes ended up being Johnny’s. What did you mean?”

He’s quiet for so long that you mistake him for falling asleep. You’ve resigned yourself to asking him another night when he speaks, his speech is slow and thoughtful, like it is hard to put it into words.

“When Soap and I are in a room together with women, I’m like a ghost. He’s a fucking human being. Flesh and blood. Alive. People want to talk to him, to know him, to laugh with him, to have a drink with him. I’m not like that. I haven’t ever been like that. More than once Johnny would try to get me together with a woman who would end up falling for him instead. Eventually I convinced him to stop trying.”

“Were you jealous?”

He makes an ambiguous sound. “It’s hard to be jealous of Soap.”

“Not impossible, though.”

He rolls you over onto your back, coming to rest over you, your legs a tangled mess beneath the sheets. The darkness lengthens the shadows of his eyes, but you can still feel his gaze, tangible as any touch. He braces himself on his elbows over you and lets his forehead rest against your own. “I just wanted someone who was mine,” he says.

It’s on the tip of your tongue, those words that are building inside of you and growing harder to withhold by the day. But you say it like this and hope he can translate: “I’m yours.”

He ducks his head and kisses you.

In the morning, Simon has slipped a piece of paper just beneath the edge of your mug of tea. When you look at it, written in charcoal pencil is DARCELINA: Dream City Tattoos and Piercings XXX-XXXX.

It’s one for the record books: the rain. Thick pregnant clouds carry more than eight inches of rain to your city in the course of a day. The last time it rained so much was apparently during the Civil War era. The city floods, including the basement of your apartment building, which leads to a building-wide power outage.

Simon has you pack a suitcase, junk the majority of your refrigerator and freezer, and come stay with him. You’re giddy, feeling like it’s a semi-permanent sleepover when he gets the call that Skin Deep has flooded as well.

Then things take a turn for the worse. Simon is gone for nearly 36 hours straight making endless calls to attempt to clear the water and begin repairs, and sometime in the midst of that, the fight with Johnny happens.

It’s an ugly one.

Simon comes home in the foulest mood you’ve ever seen him in. It turns him positively stony as he moves around the apartment making himself a hasty meal, avoiding your eyes every chance he gets. After he eats, he sits heavily on the sofa, pulls out his sketchpad, and trashes no fewer than six entire pages before you get the nerve to ask him what’s wrong.

“Soap,” he mutters, crumpling a paper in one strong, dextrous hand. He throws it toward the small garbage can beside the telly and misses. “He’s looking for other locations to pierce at.”

“Is the building that bad?” you ask. “You guys will have to find a new place?”

“Soap is looking for a new place. One without me.”

You gape, the shock of this news reaching all the way to the core of your being.

“You don’t think it’s because of—?” Me. You can’t even finish the sentence, the thought upsets you so much. You tuck your legs beneath you on the couch, curling up, seeking to become small and harmless as grief and horror wash over you in wave after wave.

“This is my fault. I tried to talk to him but he’s so fucking—he gets under my goddamn skin like he was born to do it.” Simon pauses heavily, before adding: “I need to tell you something about the night Soap pierced me.”

Story time. Alright. You uncurl your legs, choosing to sit with them criss-crossed, your body turned toward him, giving Simon your entire attention. It’s been months since you found out that Johnny had been the one to pierce Simon, but you had been no closer to getting the story from either of them. Your curiosity was a dangerous, corrosive thing, eating away at your insides.

“I’m listening,” you say, hoping you don’t look as eager as you feel.

Simon looks to be at a loss for words, running his tongue along the sharp edge of his teeth. When he speaks, it’s hardly the lengthy story you had been anticipating: “We fucked.”

You blink. “You and—Johnny?”

Simon sighs and shrugs a shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were…” Simon stares, waiting for you to finish your sentence. “…interested in men.”

“You are. Why can’t I be?”

You feel a chilly pang of horror, like someone has slipped a dagger between your ribs. You rush to assure him: “You can! You—“

Simon’s mouth twitches as he rubs at the crease of one eye, and your panic fades. He mumbles: “I’m just fucking with you.”

“So you’re bisexual.”

“I’m… I don’t fucking know. I’m attracted to who I’m attracted to. I never named it.”

“Okay,” you say gently. “We don’t have to. But what does that have to do with now?”

“The day after we—y’know. Fucked. I told him it was a one time thing. Maybe it’s in my head,” says Simon, frowning. “Maybe I’m crazy. But sometimes he looks at me or says something to me and it makes me think it’s not over. Not for him.”

“Is it really over,” you ask, “for you?”

Simon looks at you, quiet. He says: “I want you.”

And you are so relieved by the obvious honesty in his answer that it never crosses your mind to think that’s not what you asked.

Simon is uptown at a café holding consultations while Johnny directs cleanup efforts at the shop, and you think that now’s the perfect chance.

Your hands shake against the steering wheel the whole drive there, nerves less like butterflies and more like great winged moths in your belly. A part of you says that this is a mistake, you should turn back and let Simon and Johnny work it out on their own. But another part of you feels personally responsible—even if Simon says you aren’t. All your life you have taken things too personally, shouldered burdens which were not your own, bent over backwards to solve problems that weren’t yours to solve. If there was any chance that you could resolve this, you would put your pride on the line to do it.

You park alongside the street and are thrilled to find the front door unlocked. The entire place smells musty, like a basement. The wooden floors have warped a little under your tentative steps, announcing your presence sooner than you’d like.

Johnny sits in the chair where Simon tattoos clients. Sunlight streams in through the blinds and lights him up like some kind of punk-rock angel, his mohawk freshly clipped, dark finger nail polish chipping. Sometime between now and the last time you’ve seen him, he’s pierced his eyebrow: a black barbell with studs that reminds you a little too much of the one through your nipple (and Simon’s. Was that intentional? Did Johnny pick jewelry to match Simon’s? To match yours? For some reason just the thought makes your nipples tighten). In his hands is one of Simon’s sketchpads, and he’s flipping through it leisurely.

He glances up toward the sound of your footsteps.

“If you’re here about the water—“ his words die out on his pierced tongue as he stares at you, gobsmacked by your appearance.

“Hey,” you say lamely.

“Where’s Simon?” he asks, eyes flickering toward the protective spot where Simon usually hovers just over your shoulder. “He said he wouldn’t be in today.”

“He’s not. It’s just me. I thought maybe we could talk.”

Johnny openly grimaces. He shuts Simon’s sketchpad and sets it down (hopefully where he found it). Standing from the chair, he takes a few casual steps away from you, clearly heading towards the curtain that leads to the back of the shop. “Really cannot think of anything we have to talk about.”

You square your shoulders, fighting down that instinctive urge to make yourself smaller, to give in and be manageable. “I think we do.”

“You should go.”

“Not until we work this out.”

“There isn’t any this, alright, just—does Simon even know you’re here?” Something guilty must splash across your face because Johnny gives a mirthless laugh, reaching up to palm at his eyes. “Tha’s great. Just great. Could you be more incriminating?”

“Incriminating—? Look, Simon told me about the night you pierced him.”

“Oh he did, did he?” Johnny says flippantly.

“About how you two slept together.”

Now that stops Johnny in his tracks. It’s clear that he didn’t expect Simon to really tell you about that night all those years ago. He looks at you with a fresh caution, waiting to see how exactly you’ve taken this news—what you plan to do with it. “Aye, then. I guess he did.”

“I’m not trying to take him away from you.”

Johnny makes a derisive sound. His words are well-rehearsed, like he has said them to himself a hundred-hundred times: “Cannot take what isn’t mine.”

“He was your friend first,” you say, aiming for conciliatory and gentle the same way you might approach a feral animal. Johnny stares at you with flat, suspicious eyes. They’re so fucking blue—so different from Simon’s own dark ochre ones. “He told me that you’re one of the most important people in his life.”

Johnny’s face softens. He says: “You shouldn’t tell me that. He wouldn’t.”

“He’s not always good with words. Please don’t leave the shop, Johnny. I think it would break Simon’s heart.”

“I didn’t know he had a heart to break,” Johnny mutters. He leans against the wall beside the curtain and sighs, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ll think about it. Now out. You shouldn’t be breathin’ in this air.”

Johnny ushers you to the door, hand hovering just above your back, careful not to touch you. Once you’re out on the street, he shuts the door and locks it audibly. Then he leans in and huffs a heated breath beneath the “NO WALK INS” sign. In the fog, he adds: “No GFs!”

You flip him off.

He flips you off.

On the way back to your car, you find yourself smiling. You force yourself to scowl. It’s a more appropriate expression. Giving one last glance back toward Skin Deep, you find him still standing there, watching.

Likely just to make sure you’re really leaving.

Not long after you are moved back into your apartment, you find that Simon stops sleeping.

You’re ashamed to say that it takes you a while to notice; nothing changes on your end of things. Anytime you are sleeping over, he lays down with you, tugs you up against his chest, and holds you for ages, his body still and breathing even. But one night you wake to a cool, empty bed. And later in the week, it happens again. Until more often than not you realize that any moment when you expect Simon to be sleeping, he isn’t.

Usually you find him sketching, shadows like charcoal smudged beneath his eyes. He doesn’t meet your gaze and tells you to go back to bed, that he’ll be there soon. Sometimes he even does come to lay back down beside you—but only long enough for you to convince him that you have fallen asleep again. Then he is shifting away from you, disappearing into the other room, shutting the bedroom with the quietest click behind him.

You know that he’s busy. His schedule has been booked—and with deposits nonrefundable, people more often than not kept their appointments. He’s been working with a client on mock ups for a sleeve, and the various pieces and the way they all come together around the contours of the person’s body are very delicate. Johnny’s threat to find a new job doesn’t help, either. Have they talked and resolved things yet? Simon never says so.

You can’t imagine the stress that he is under, and you’d do anything to be able to shoulder a fraction of it for him.

That’s how you end up with drunk Johnny in your car.

It starts with Simon falling asleep before you—for once. You can tell he is well and truly asleep by the sheer weight of his arm over you, the soft snores that he gives out against the nape of your neck. After so many nights of sleeplessness, his body has finally given in. You’re about to slip off to sleep yourself when the buzzing of a phone startles you back into wakefulness.

Not your phone—Simon’s phone. And it goes off again. And again. And again. Who the hell could be sending so many messages at midnight?

You know you should leave it alone—if it was urgent, they would likely call—but curiosity gets the better of you. Carefully you slip out from under Simon’s arm. It’s a testament to his sheer exhaustion that he doesn’t wake as you jostle him. In sleep, he looks painfully young and relaxed, and it makes you long to reach out and brush back his hair that has fallen onto his forehead. But not at the risk of waking him.

Sure that all you are planning to do is shut Simon’s phone off so that he can get some restful sleep, you are surprised to see that Simon has his text notifications visible on the homescreen, so all it takes is a simple tap to open them up.

Johnny. All Johnny.

Ghost.

Ghost

Are you uo?

Up* fuck my fingers

I need a ride home

Simon

I’m at that bar on… The text is cut off. To see more, you would have to open his phone. So Johnny is stuck at some bar, drunk more than likely. Well good riddance, you think to yourself, the hurtful way he treated you still very much fresh in your brain. But then you remember your talk at Skin Deep, and your traitorous heart softens. Could you really just put the phone back now and pretend you hadn’t seen the messages?

Simon doesn’t even have a password; that’s how much he trusts you. Would he still trust you after this, if he knew that you had gone through his phone, even if it was for a good cause?

Making a spur of the moment decision, you could only hope so. Your conscience wouldn’t let you wake Simon, and as much as you disliked him, it couldn’t let you leave Johnny stranded at some bar either.

You open his phone as quickly as you can, swiping so that it goes straight to Johnny’s texts and nowhere else. The name of the bar is right there, and you scramble for your own phone to type it down in Google Maps. He’s not far. Probably would be within walking distance, if he weren’t drunk. You could be there and back before Simon ever knew you were gone—you hoped.

As Simon, you send back to Johnny a simple OMW.

There is no hint of spring in the frigid March air as you slip outside into your car. The parking lot is dim and quiet, and traffic is minimal as you follow the GPS on your phone to Johnny’s location. The pub nightlife spills out onto the pavement and you struggle to find a place to park, grimacing at the knowledge that you will have to get out of the car and go inside to find Johnny, considering you see him nowhere on the street. Leaving the warmth of your car is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do, especially in just a thin tank-top and a pair of leggings. Gathering your coat more tightly around yourself, you rush out of the car and through the people on the sidewalk and into the warmth of the pub.

You keep your eyes peeled for Johnny, but can’t spot his silly haircut anywhere. What if he’s gotten a ride home from someone else? What if he’s decided to walk, or found someone to go home with? You shift up onto your toes, looking over everyone in the bar when you spot him in the corner at a table with a few other men.

Johnny doesn’t even recognize you at first—either a testament to how unexpected your sudden appearance is or how drunk he is based on how difficult it is for his eyes to focus on you. When he realizes who you are, his mouth drops. He points.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, accent so thick and slurred that you can barely understand him.

“Picking you up. You said you needed a ride.”

“Aye but not from—oh, Jesus make me still. Yer not wearing a bra, are you?”

All the men at the table turn to gape. You snatch the sides of your jacket closed where they had loosely fallen open, your face flushing with warmth. The table roars with laughter, but Johnny in his drunkenness doesn’t seem to notice your embarrassment.

“That was mine!” Johnny shouts, elbowing the man next to him. “Did you see that? That was my work!”

“We get it, bruv,” the guy says with a roll of his eyes. “She’s no ten.”

“What’d you fuckin’ say?”

The table laughs.

Johnny grabs a fistful of the guy’s shirt and drags him nearly clean out of his seat. “I said, What’d you fucking say about her?”

The table stops laughing. Johnny cuts an impressive figure even when drunk; he’s easily the largest guy of the group. Your stomach drops and lands somewhere between your shoes. This is not going to plan at all. Reaching out, you try to insert yourself physically between the two of them but can only wrap your fingers around Johnny’s wrist, feeling the strength poised in the tendons.

“Johnny,” you say, loudly to be heard over the sounds of the pub. “Come on. Let’s go, yeah? Simon…Simon’s out in the car.”

“Simon?” Johnny let’s go of the guy’s shirt, his bad mood evaporating as quickly as it had manifested. He nudges his way out from behind the table, all politeness. Once free, he stumbles into a woman in a slinky dress who gives him a look that could melt glass.

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize to her, wrapping an arm around Johnny’s waist and doing your best to keep him steady. “He’s an idiot, and he’s drunk. You look amazing by the way—“

“Control your boyfriend,” she snaps.

“I will,” you promise, guiding Johnny away from her and into the crowd.

His nose brushes the shell of your ear, breath fanning across your neck as he says with a laugh in his voice: “I’m not yer boyfriend.”

You flush. “Thanks for letting me know, Johnny. I had no clue.”

He says something back, some Scottish phrase, his accent so thick you couldn’t understand the words even if you knew them.

“English, please,” you mutter.

“Je-sus,” he groans, dragging the words out into multiple syllables. He takes your chin in his hand and squeezes your cheeks a little. “You’re just like him. ‘English, MacTavish’. Ha!”

You bat his hand away.

“He’s been rubbing off on you,” Johnny mutters, laughing a little. Beneath his breath (though far more loudly than he likely intends), he adds: “In more ways than one, I imagine.”

Your face goes hot. “Johnny, stop talking.”

The two of you exit the pub out into the cool night air. It seems to sober Johnny some, as he takes in deep, gulping breaths. He walks a little steadier as the two of you cross the street, and by the time you’ve made it to your car, he has shrugged you off altogether (even if he is still a little unstable on his feet). He stands outside the car for a moment before opening one of the rear doors.

“What are you doing?”

“Rather sit back here.”

“I’m not your cabbie.”

“Strange manner of dress if you were,” he says snidely, slipping into the backseat.

In the driver’s seat, you let yourself have a small breakdown. You grip the wheel tightly, taking a few deep breaths of your own, searching for inner peace. You thought that you and Johnny had a tentative truce after that day at Skin Deep, but clearly he is still holding some grudge. Your search for peace turns up empty.

“Sorry I lied about Simon being here. I just really needed you to leave the pub,” you explain politely.

“Knew you were lying,” Johnny says from the darkness of the backseat. He sounds remarkably like Simon: brooding and irritable. “He’s got no idea you’re here, does he? He’d never let you come alone.”

You frown. “No. He doesn’t. He’s sleeping and I didn’t want to wake him.”

“Nightmares?”

“Huh?”

Johnny leans forward. You glance at him in the rear view mirror. “I said, Has he been having more nightmares?”

You didn’t know anything about Simon having nightmares. That sour feeling in your belly was back, the one that made you feel like you would never truly know Simon, not the way his friends did.

“No,” you say, a little defensive. “He’s been working on this sleeve for a client. Staying up way too late to finish it on time.”

“Aye. Nightmares. Anything else is just an excuse he’s telling himself—and you.”

Done with the conversation, you turn the key in the ignition and pull out into the street. “What’s your address?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“Left my keys at the bar.”

“Goddamnit.”

You turn towards Simon’s apartment. “Then you’re staying with us—with Simon. You can sleep on his couch and get your keys in the morning; I’m sure he won’t care.”

“Are you staying there?”

“Yes.”

Johnny mutters something under his breath. You consider yourself lucky not to have heard it. For a while, the two of you drive in silence. Then Johnny says:

“You never came for your second nipple.”

“It’s only just been six months.”

“So you’re due for an appointment then, aren’t you?”

You steel yourself, gripping the wheel tightly at ten-and-two. “Actually, I’m going to someone else.”

Johnny’s seatbelt unclicks. He hovers at your shoulder bringing with him burning warmth and the scent of whisky. When he talks, his breath brushes your neck, fury tangible in every syllable. “Who is it? Who the hell is he taking you to? Darcelina? Astrid? Dusty? Whoever it is, consider the appointment canceled. No one is piercing you but me.”

“You don’t get that privilege,” you grit out between your teeth. “Not anymore, not after the way you’ve treated me!”

“Oh, did I offend you?” he breathes, clutching one hand at his breast. “Not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on?”

“Fuck you, Soap! I wanted to be friends.” Your voice cracks embarrassingly. Suddenly the road goes blurry. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself to calm down—you’re driving for fuck’s sake. You swallow past the lump in your throat, the silence interrupted by rustling as Johnny leans forward again in the backseat, trying to get a look at your face in the passing streetlights.

“Fuck,” Johnny groans. “Are you crying?”

“No!”

“You are. Fuckin’—pull over, before you get us killed.”

Keen embarrassment only has your eyes watering more, until you have no choice but to do as he asks, pulling over to hastily parallel park and throw on your hazard lights. You let your elbows rest against the steering wheel, face in your hands. His words echo in your head, said in that stupid Scottish brogue: not falling down at your feet? Not worshippin’ the ground you walk on? Are those really the things he thought you wanted? Is that the sort of impression you gave to Johnny, to Ghost’s other friends?

The backseat door opens and Johnny climbs out. A small part of you hopes that he will walk himself home—and good riddance. But he horrifies you by walking all the way around to the driver’s side of the car and tugging on the door handle until you begrudgingly unlock the doors.

“C’mon,” he says, trying to pull you out of the car with your seatbelt still on.

“What’re you—?”

“Just—wouldya—so stubborn—“ he drunkenly leans over you and mashes his fingers against the button of your seatbelt until it releases. For that brief moment, he is a warm weight across your lap, bringing with him the scent of cologne and whisky. Then he pulls you out of the car—and into his arms. It’s a tight, full hug, chest-to-chest, not bone crushing per se, but all-encompassing.

You don’t realize how badly you need it from him until you’re getting it.

“You’re such a dick,” you groan against his shoulder, sniffling.

“Aye,” he says, swaying a little on his feet, like the two of you are dancing. “But I’m right. We cannot be friends. So you’ve got to let this go, alright? Just breathe out 'n let it go.”

“I don’t understand,” you mutter. “He wants us to be friends.”

“He doesn’t know what he wants,'' Johnny says, one hand rubbing gently at your shoulder blades. “No more crying. It’s out of your hands. Aye?”

You shake your head, hands gripping his shirt.

But your tears slow and eventually stop. Cars pass occasionally. One of them honks at the sight of you both entwined on the side of the road, rolls down their window to let their passenger yell something suggestive, and it makes your face go hot. Johnny pulls away, nearly stumbling out into the road to give the car both middle fingers as it peels away. He slips on the damp asphalt and goes down hard on his side, taking the skin off his elbow and palm.

“Fuck, I’m hammered,” he laughs.

“Clearly,” you say, struggling to help him up and into the backseat.

Once in the driver’s seat again, you feel exhausted, emptied, like a washcloth wrung out and left to dry. The drive back to the apartment is silent, and when you’re in the parking lot, neither of you make a move to get out of the car.

You warn Johnny: “Simon’s asleep, so be quiet inside.”

Johnny warns you sleepily: “Ghost is right there.”

There’s a tap on the glass of your window. It nearly makes you shriek—but it is only Simon, half-smoked cigarette in his fingers, bundled up outside the car door. You roll down the window sheepishly.

“Need a little help?” he asks, taking a drag and turning his head so the smoke doesn’t touch you. His eyes are on Johnny in the backseat.

You hold up your fingers with just a smidge of space between them.

#ghoap x reader #skin deep

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

Looked to the Sky - Chapter 19

Summary:

Eira Archeron was neither a Valkyrie, nor a Seer, nor the High Lady of the Night Court. She was, however, Azriel‘s mate with her own mysterious, untrained powers.

Also known as: Azriel tries to court his mate the human way.

Warnings:

THIS IS THE LIGHTNING IN A BOTTLE SEQUEL! SO READ THAT FIRST IF YOU WANNA READ THIS ONE OTHERWISE THIS MAKES NO SENSE!

Mention of domestic violence and without @k-godling this would have never happened.

(super pretty dividers by @tsunami-of-tears)

The day was perfect. It dawned bright and clear...the perfect wintery day.

"You are nervous," Cassian teased him. Azriel just glared at him.

"Of course, I am," Azriel gave back with a growl.

"And here I thought you had nerves of steel," Cassian's voice dripped with a smirk as he helped Azriel adjust his shirt for the millionth time.

"I do," Azriel shot back. "Or did you forget this morning? When I knocked you on your ass?"

"You caught me off guard," Cassian protested.

Azriel let out a snort, smoothing down his shirt.

"Yeah right," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Keep telling yourself that, brother."

"I like seeing the all-mighty Shadowsinger be reduced to a terrified groom," Cassian snickered.

"I am not terrified," Azriel protested. "I have seen battle. I've fought gods and lived to tell the tale. I can handle some flowers, and some guests, and some vows."

"Yeah, but you can't handle your pretty little mate in a wedding dress, can't you?" Cassian asked with a grin.

Azriel couldn't stop the heat that rose to his cheeks as the mental image of Eira in a wedding dress popped into his mind.

Of course, he couldn't hide the flush of his skin from Cassian, who started laughing at the sight.

"You're blushing," Cassian accused, a wide grin on his face.

Azriel shot him a glare, smoothing down his shirt again.

"Keep telling yourself that in order to feel better about your ass being handed to you this morning," he grumbled.

Cassian was still chuckling as they heard the sound of the door opening, revealing Rhys, who was clad in his own wedding finery.

The High Lord had a smug look on his face that Azriel didn't like the look of at all. "Finally got the groom into his clothes, I see," Rhys said, shooting Azriel a grin.

And then, his eyes were immediately pulled to his mother, standing in the doorway. Rhys had gone to fetch her just now.

She was dressed in her own finery, and she looked more radiant than Azriel had seen her in years. Her hair was braided back and pinned up, and even her green eyes were bright and shining as she looked over the trio of males.

She immediately came over and smoothed a hand over Azriel's hair, adjusting his shirt as he had done.

"You look perfect," she told him. "Handsome as ever."

Azriel's heart clenched at his mother's words, and he had to fight off a sudden wave of nervousness, even as Cassian clasped him on his back as he backed off.

"Are you...sure you're alright?" he asked his mother quietly. She didn't often leave the safety of Rosehall. Esmeray just gave him a look.

"I'm perfectly fine," she told him reassuringly, patting his cheek affectionately. "And you'll do great today."

Azriel felt a flush rising to his cheeks at her words and the affection in her voice, and he ducked his head to hide it.

"Thank you, Ma," he whispered quietly. "And you look stunning," he said quietly, his eyes sweeping over her blue dress and the hair pinned up with sparkling pins.

His mother's eyes softened, a fond smile on her face as she gently pinched his cheek as if he were a little kid instead of the fearsome shadowsinger.

"You'll make me cry," she said, her voice still soft. "And you don't want me to show up to the wedding with a red nose and puffy eyes, do you?"

Azriel managed to laugh, gently covering her hand on his cheek with one of his own.

"Absolutely not," he teased gently. "It would ruin the whole occasion."

His mother laughed at that, patting his cheek again before she reached up to fix the buttons of his jacket, and he tried not to twitch at the fussing.

He was the spymaster, for Cauldron's sake. But here he was, blushing at his mother's affection and letting her fix his clothes like he was still a child.

"You look wonderful," his mother said to him, her eyes searching his face. "I have seen you as a warrior, and as a spymaster. Today...today I will see you as a husband."

His heart stuttered a bit at the words, and he had to fight to keep himself steady, forcing down the sudden wave of nervousness that threatened to consume him.

"And..." he began, his voice coming out a little rough. "Do I...measure up to husband standards?"

His mother chuckled at that, gently patting his chest.

"You've always been more than enough for me," she said warmly. "And you've always strived to be enough for yourself. But that beautiful girl you asked to marry you? She thinks you hung the moon and the stars. For her? You are everything."

He swallowed.

His mother cocked her head to the side. "What's wrong, darling?" She asked him quietly.

"I don't...I don't want to be like him," he whispered.

Realization flashed through his mother's eyes at his words, and she paused for a moment.

"You are nothing like him," she said firmly. "Not one thing like him. Not in your words, not in your actions, not in your heart.

"I look just like him," Azriel disagreed. Just like his father.

His mother's eyes softened again, and she reached out to cup his face in her hands.

"You have his nose, my darling, and your hair is the same tone of black..." She paused for a moment, staring into his green eyes. "...but that is where the similarities end. Your father was cruel to me. Brutal even. He took joy in hurting me, and you. But you, my dearest boy, are the opposite. "

"I did things," he admitted, a hoarse breath escaping him. "Things that..."

His mother gently shushed him, running a hand through his inky black hair.

"None of us are perfect, my darling," she whispered. "And none of us have perfect pasts. I won't tell you that what you did was right, but you're not him. You are a good man. A better man than your father ever was."

Azriel felt his shoulders relax slightly at his mother's words, and he took in a deep, steadying breath.

"I just want to be good to her," he whispered, his voice almost cracking with emotion. "I need to be. I want to be good to Eira."

His mother looked like she wanted to hug him then and there, but she settled for gently stroking his hair again, her expression warm and kind.

"I know, my sweet boy," she told him gently. "You already are. And if you are good to her, and care for her, and treat her like the precious gift that she is, then you are nothing like your father. Nothing at all like him."

Azriel let out a shuddering breath, taking a step forward and hugging his mother for a brief moment, burying his face in her dark hair.

"Thank you," he whispered as he pulled back slightly, his voice still hoarse. "Thank you so much."

His mother smiled again, gently patting his cheek one final time.

"Now go get married, my darling," she said. "And be happy with your wonderful mate."

Azriel had to fight the sudden burning in his eyes, and he looked down, afraid that his eyes might give him away.

But then a second pair of hands were on his shoulders, and he lifted his head up, seeing Rhys next to him.

"A little bird told me that you'd need this right about now," Rhys said, producing a glass of amber-coloured liquor.

Azriel couldn't help but let out a little bark of laughter at the sight, grabbing the glass and taking a long, slow swig of the liquor.

It burned going down, and he coughed as the alcohol hit his tongue. But it was good, and helped ease the nerves and the ache in his chest.

***

For all the thoughts that Eira had had about wanting a husband and children...she had never really thought about how it would feel to get married.

She never had had thoughts about a poufy white dress and flowers...

But here she was. Letting Azriel's shadows weave snowdrops into her hair, as she was perched at her vanity table.

It was almost like a dream...like something out of a storybook. A beautiful wedding dress fit for a fairytale, flowers woven into her hair, and a mate waiting to speak his vows.

This...this was something beautiful.

The last snowdrop was added to the others in her caramel brown hair, their shimmering white petals almost glowing against her hair.

Eira stared into the mirror as the shadows moved back, her breath catching in her chest as she saw the flowers...and how beautiful all of it, all her was.

She was almost afraid to look up, afraid to look away from the mirror, her hands clenching against each other.

"You look beautiful," Feyre said softly from where she was sitting on the bed, Nyx on her lap.

"What about jewellery?" Nesta asked her. She hadn't even finished the sentence, before the shadows had already brought her that velvet box from Solstice.

At the sight of the black velvet box, she felt her heart clench in her chest, a bittersweet pang of affection moving through her.

The shadows placed the box in her hand, and she undid the latch, lifting the lid and gazing at the shining pearls, the glittering diamonds.

They were the most beautiful things she had ever seen, shining against the backdrop of the black velvet. Gorgeous.

Eira picked up the necklace first, carefully clasping it around her throat.

The bracelet was next, her hands shaking a little as she struggled to fasten the delicate clasp.

And then…then they opened the drawer of her vanity table and pulled out another velvet box. That velvet box. Those pearl earrings. The earrings.

“I can’t wear them,” Eira protested quietly. “I don’t have…”

But then the shadows already opened the box. We had them fixed. They are clip-on earrings now. No need for your earlobes to be pierced.

Eira stared, shocked, at the earrings.

Her throat was suddenly tight, and she had to swallow down the sudden lump in her throat as she looked down at the earrings.

They were absolutely gorgeous. She had thought that from the first time she had seen them. Pearl and Diamond. Simple and elegant.

They were perfect.

And the shadows had altered them for her. Changed them into clip-on earrings, so that she wouldn't have to get her ears pierced.

They had gone to the extra effort for her, had wanted to make sure that she could wear them, even without her getting her ears pierced, and...it was more than a little overwhelming.

“Thank you,” she whispered, biting back the tears. “Thank you.”

It was ridiculous, how such a small thing could nearly make her tear up...but it was just so thoughtful, such a sweet, meaningful gesture, for a stupid little pair of earrings, and -

The shadows twined around her, giving her a reassuring little nudge, wrapping themselves around her with a gentle squeeze almost like a hug.

She could finally wear Azriel's gift.

She exhaled, the motion shuddering and a little unsteady as she just stared at the earrings in her hands.

They were just...beautiful, and so very thoughtful, even more so now that the shadows had gone to such great lengths to make them accessible to her. So that she would be able to wear them, without having to go through the trouble of getting her ears pierced.

It was so...thoughtful...so considerate...It...It was almost painful, how much this small thing meant to her.

They tightened them on her earlobes and then brushed against her cheeks.

She almost didn't notice that Feyre had gotten up until the High Lady of the Night Court stood behind her and put an arm around her waist.

"You look gorgeous," Feyre told her for the second time, a gentle smile on her face. "So beautiful."

Eira's breath caught in her chest as she stared into the mirror, seeing her reflection. The pearls and diamonds. The snowdrops. .

Feyre was right...she looked beautiful.

And she wasn't even wearing the best part yet.

The Dress.

The dress that she had made...that she had designed was perfect. It was beautiful.

It was white and silken, smooth to the touch and hugging her body perfectly...the lace and silk dripping off her like liquid. She had spent hours carefully beading the lace and the tulle with dozens and dozens of crystals and pearls...until it was perfect.

Beautiful, and flowing, and perfect. Like something out of a dream, or a fairy tale.

She reached out and gently touched the skirts, her heart thundering in her chest as the realization hit her all over again.

She was wearing a wedding dress.

It was something that she had almost resigned herself to never having. A beautiful wedding dress, with flowers in her hair and her mate waiting at the end of the aisle.

But now...now there was no turning back. No turning back as Nesta and Feyre closed the dozens of tiny pearl buttons that kept the dress closed on the back. As Nesta smoothed down the train that fell from her shoulders to the floor, the layers upon layers of silk and lace.

She looked up as Nesta stood, her hands smoothing along the beautiful silk and lace. "Perfect," she said quietly, a warm smile on her face.

Feyre was smiling too, her eyes sparkling a bit as she looked at the dress. Even little Nyx was quiet with fascination, staring at Eira from Feyre's arms.

And then...there was a single knock on the door, and all three of the Archeron girls went very still, realizing the significance of it.

Eira's heart was pounding in her ribcage so hard that she felt as if it might burst, her hands clenching and unclenching at her side.

"Ready?" Feyre asked her quietly. Eira tried to say something, but her voice wouldn't work and she simply nodded.

"Good," Feyre smiled. "Then let's get you married."

Eira forced herself to take a deep, shaky breath, her chest tight with nerves and excitement and love.

And then, before she could think too hard about it, Feyre was opening the door, revealing Rhys in all his wedding finery waiting behind it.

Every bit the High Lord, his hair slicked back from his face, and his suit dark and crisp, a warm smile on his face.

"You look beautiful," he told her quietly, a hint of a gleam in his violet eyes. "Stunning, little sister."

"Thank you," Eira whispered back, her voice a little hoarse.

Rhys offered his arm to her and she took it almost shyly, her heart racing.

"Time to get you married," he said, grinning at her.

Eira managed a shaky laugh, her chest tight as she took a few trembling steps.

She couldn't see anything but Rhys and her vision had started to blur, and the thundering of her blood was so loud that it almost sounded like drums.

“Please don’t let me fall down the stairs,” she blurted out and Rhys laughed softly.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” Rhys promised her, as they reached the staircase landing. “We’ll get you safely to that temple.”

And then…then Eira only needed to get down the aisle without tripping.

“Just hold on to me,” Rhys said as she managed the first few steps of that staircase, Nesta behind her managing her train.

She could do that. Probably.

But Rhys was solid and unmoving and his easy strength meant she could depend on it and…

“You alright?" Rhys asked quietly, noticing her nerves and her shaking.

Eira swallowed hard, trying to steady her heart. Her palms were damp and her knees felt like jelly but she managed a nod at her brother's question, trying desperately to focus on anything but the nerves. Rhys squeezed her arm again, reassuring and comforting. "You'll be alright," he said quietly. "Just breathe."

She forced herself to take a deep breath, filling her lungs with air, and slowly letting it out, focusing on the feel of her feet moving on the floor.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered, her breath choking in her throat.

There wasn’t a father that could walk her down the aisle. That had been taken from her along with her humanity, during that war. But if she could just depend on Rhys’ easy strength, that immovable presence of his…maybe she was going to be just fine with that...

Rhys squeezed her hand. “You’ll be fine,” he promised, violet eyes shining. “I won’t let you fall, little one.”

And he didn’t.

Rhys gently squeezed her arm, his smile kind as he carefully guided her outside into the garden and then towards that temple at the far end of it.

One step, and then another, and then another, moving closer and closer to these double doors and the room beyond.

It was like a whirlwind, and she was only aware of two things. Rhys's arm under hers to keep her steady...and the fact that Azriel was waiting at the end of the aisle, his wings flared behind him.

And suddenly…suddenly it was so easy.

She didn't notice anything besides him, his wings flared out behind him and his suit crisp and black against his dark skin and onyx hair. He was staring at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of amazement and love.

And she felt her heart clench in her chest, a surge of adoration moving through her at the sight of the male who was to become her husband.

She was barely aware that she was moving again, slowly walking down the aisle, every step bringing her closer to him. Eira hardly noticed the people watching or saw the soft smiles on their faces.

All she could see was her mate, her eyes completely locked on to him, and all she could hear was the thumping of her heart in her chest.

She heard the sound of Feyre behind her, laughing softly, and feel Rhys gently letting go of her arm.

The only thing that mattered…the only thing that mattered was him.

She drank him in, her eyes glued to his, as she held out her hands for him to take and warm, scarred fingers closed around hers.

The Priestess said something to her, the words were a little hard to process, her heart still racing in her chest, her breaths coming faster than they should have. But she still managed to respond immediately, her voice hoarse as she smiled up at her mate, grey eyes meeting hazel-green.

"Yes."

She heard a quiet, almost shaky sort of breath from Azriel, his wings shifting behind him, as he stared at her in wonder, as she heard with half a mind the priestess repeat the question, this time to Azriel…

She heard Azriel's chest heave with a deep, steadying breath before he responded, his voice like gravel, like velvet, the most beautiful sound of them all.

"Yes."

The priestess began speaking again, the words passing over Eira like some kind of dream. She was too focused on him, her mate, the wonderful male in front of her that was hers.

This felt like something out of a dream, like the fantasy storybooks she had been reading as a child...

But the male standing in front of her, looking at her, looking at her as if she was the only good thing in all the world...that was very real.

A real as the priestess in her robes continued to speak. She caught snippets of what he said. Words like promises, and commitment, and love. Forever.

And always.

No one had every looked at her the way he did. Or loved her the way he did.

And then...then, finally...his hand lifted to her face

She felt as if the entire world stopped around her at the touch.

His hand was warm on her cheek, callouses rough against her skin as he touched her, and she leant into the touch, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again.

His eyes were wide, his face soft with adoration.

“You may kiss your bride."

Time seemed to slow to a stop as she looked at Azriel, her heart thundering against her skin, her blood rushing in her ears.

There was nothing in the world that she wanted more at that moment than to kiss her husband.

He gently cupped the back of her head in his other hand as he pulled her closer, his wings spreading out behind him as he leaned down to meet her.

The second his lips met hers was like lightning striking through Eira, setting her blood on fire and sending a shiver down her spine. Her head was spinning and her heart was racing and her lungs had completely forgotten how to work as time seemed to slow down around them, only him and her and the moment that they shared.

His lips against hers, his hand in her hair…

And then, somehow, they had to stop, separating just barely, their breath mingling together as they slowly pulled apart.

Eira could feel her heart hammering in her chest, feel the way her whole body seemed to hum at his touch, the way her blood was still on fire, burning hotter than it had before.

She was faintly aware of the cheering of their family, the applause and whistles of the people around them, but she hardly cared.

She was far too focused on the feeling of him, her mate, her husband still holding her…She had married him....her wonderful, beautiful Azriel.

And she smiled.

Eira grinned, beaming up at him.

Azriel stared down at her, his expression still wide-eyed and a little stunned. But then, after a moment, he smiled back, his hand curling gently against her cheek.

I love you.

The words weren't spoken, but she could see them on his face, in the adoration in his gaze, in the way his eyes shone as he looked at her.

She could feel everything through the bond, every bit of his intense, unwavering love for her. Every bit of his adoration and affection and tenderness.

He was staring at her as if she was the most beautiful female in all of Prythian, and she had never felt more loved in her whole life.

"We're married," she murmured, her voice shaking just a little as she spoke the words.

"We are," Azriel murmured back, his voice rough with emotion.

And then he was pulling her closer into his arms, her body melting against his as he held her close, holding onto her like he was holding a precious treasure in his hands.

Like she was something to cherish.

He held her tight, his face buried in her hair while he took a deep, shuddery breath.

"My wife," he murmured quietly, his voice a soft rumble.

And gods, did she like hearing that. Loved hearing that.

"My husband," she whispered back, tilting her head back a little to look up at him, her eyes glowing with pure adoration as she smiled at him.

Her husband. Her mate. Her most wonderful, caring, incredible male.

She wanted to spend hours in his arms, the feeling of his touch against her body. She wanted to be claimed, to be marked by him as his wife.

His mate.

His everything.

She wanted all of his attention, all of his love, all of his adoration. All of it, forever.

Gods, but she wanted him. Wanted to have him, and be had by him.

And judging by the way his eyes darkened as hers glowed brighter, the way his arms tightened around her, the way his breath hitched in his chest....he wanted her just as much.

But first...first...first, there was their family descending on them, congratulations and cheers.

Through the wave of well-wishers and kind words, Azriel never let go of her.

He didn’t let go, he just kept her tucked against his side, his hand never leaving her body, gently touching some part of her. Her hand, her hair, her shoulder.

Even as Feyre stepped up, looking almost blissed as she grinned and drew them both into a tight hug.

"I'm so happy for you both," Feyre told them, looking beyond happy as she smiled at them, a genuine, joyful smile.

Nesta stepped up then, a soft, warm smile on her face, a single tear in the corner of her eye as she gave them both a quick hug before stepping back.

"Congratulations," she said warmly, before stepping back to stand with Esmeray, who was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Rhys was there moments later, pulling them both into a tight hug and clapping Azriel on the back, his smile nearly splitting his face in half.

"I always knew you had it in you, brother," he said with a low chuckle, which he quickly quieted when Feyre pinched him on the side.

After him came Cassian, grabbing them both in a bear hug and lifting them off the ground for a moment before he set them down, grinning at them both like some kind of excited child.

"You're both married!" he exclaimed, looking utterly ecstatic. "I'd never thought I'd see the day!"

Mor stepped up after him, her face glowing as she wrapped her arms around them, pulling them into a tight hug.

"Congratulations," she murmured quietly, her voice tight with emotion. "Both of you...I'm so happy."

Amren was last, her face set in its usual cold, stoic expression. But then, she stepped up in front of them, giving both Azriel and Eira a brief, quick hug before saying, "Congratulations. I'm very...pleased, that both of you have found happiness in each other."

Esmeray was grinning with excitement as she stepped up, the older female looking utterly joyful as she gave both Azriel and Eira a tight hug, squeezing them tight.

"I'm so happy for the both of you," she said quietly, her voice quavering a little. "Thank you, Ma," Azriel said quietly.

"Thank you," Eira echoed, her voice soft as she looked at her new mother-in-law.

Esmeray just smiled fondly at them both, reaching up to gently pat each of them on the cheek.

"You're both wonderful together," she said quietly, her voice soft and warm. "I hope you're both very happy together."

She looked away briefly, her eyes glowing, before looking back at them with a bright smile.

"And no doubt you'll be having some wonderful children too," Esmeray said, her voice almost singsong. Azriel almost choked...while a faint blush crept up over Eira's cheeks.

"Mother," Azriel said, his voice almost strangled.

But Esmeray just laughed, grinning at both of them with a mischievous sort of twinkle in her eye. "I'm just saying," she said with a laugh. "I would love to be a grandmother."

Azriel groaned, facepalming as Esmeray continued to laugh.

And in the midst of all the laughter, all the joy and love and well-wishes...Eira felt an almost overwhelming sense of contentment settle in her chest.

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