#ACOTAR AU

[velarisdusk]

Chapter 6 — Fragile Patterns

series masterlist <- Chapter 5 ✦ Chapter 7 -> word count: 4,648 author's note: patterns indeed...... yummy

You sat motionless in the driver’s seat outside the psych building, hands limp on the steering wheel. The parking garage was quiet in the way places get after too many hours awake—flickering with fluorescent light and a hum that bordered on unbearable. That soft, droning buzz had settled in the base of your skull, rising and falling like a second heartbeat. You weren’t sure how long you’d been there, only that the text on your phone had blurred into unreadable gray lines, and the screen had dimmed from lack of use.

Cassian: You around?

The message glowed against the dark interior of your car, as if the device was the only living thing in the space.

Your thumb hovered above the keyboard. Unmoving. Unsure.

You could say no.

You probably should say no.

You could drive home, peel off the clothes that smelled like lecture halls and recycled air, shower, slip into clothes that hadn’t touched a gym floor or a stranger’s smoke. You could eat something solid for the first time in twelve hours. Light a candle. Try to believe in the things Rhysand, in his own infuriating way, kept insisting mattered. Write something soft in that ugly little journal with the uncreased spine. Pretend self-compassion was more than a buzzword you clung to like a shield. 

You could choose quiet.

Or—

Or you could choose him.

Choose the place where the noise stopped. Where the lights were low and the sheets smelled like citrus and cedar and that cologne Cassian wore—the one that somehow lingered on your skin longer than it had any right to.

You shouldn’t. You knew that. This wasn’t a solution.

But your brain had been thrumming like an open circuit all evening, thoughts too loud, too fast. You were tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix. Tired beneath your skin.

And Cassian—he was loud in the right way. Big enough to carry all the noise until it quieted. Steady enough to hold your weight without flinching.

So you typed, without ceremony:

(Y/n): omw

You didn’t let yourself think about what that meant.

Didn’t name the flutter that rose low in your belly. Didn’t acknowledge how it wasn’t dread this time. Not really.

Didn’t think at all, because thinking was what got you stuck in parking garages and bad spirals and bones that ached from the inside out.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Cassian’s apartment was quiet when you arrived. Not silent—never that—but dim, soft around the edges. The overheads were off, replaced by the warm amber of a single lamp tucked in the corner. Shadows clung to the furniture. The TV flickered muted light across the room, but the volume was off, forgotten.

He opened the door before you could knock.

Cassian looked—tired. In a way you recognized. His hair was damp like he’d just stepped out of the shower, curling slightly at the ends. Loose gray sweats clung low to his hips, and the black T-shirt he wore looked like it had been pulled on in a hurry. His face was bare, no pretense of being anything other than what he was: big, solid, and a little frayed.

He didn’t smile. Not fully. But his mouth twitched like it wanted to.

“Hey,” he said, voice roughened from disuse or sleep or something else he wouldn’t name.

You stepped across the threshold without answering. Let the door shut behind you. Let your bag fall to the floor with a thud. Let your body make the decisions your brain refused to.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t have to.

His hands found your waist the moment you got close enough. Big palms. Familiar grip. Like his body had memorized yours.

And you let him.

Let your fingers fist in the hem of his T-shirt. Let your mouth meet his, familiar and grounding and nothing like silence. He kissed you like he always did—intentional. Warm. Devastating.

The static in your mind faded the moment your lips met. Like something frantic inside you had finally curled up and gone quiet.

Cassian always kissed like he meant it. No lazy brushes or unsure tension—just depth and heat and the kind of focus that made you feel held. He started slow, checking for hesitation. For permission. But when your grip tightened in the soft cotton of his shirt, he deepened the kiss without asking again.

He wanted this. Wanted you.

And gods, you needed to be wanted.

Did he need that too?

Your hands slid beneath his shirt on instinct. Warm skin met your fingertips—broad chest, ridged muscle, a faint trail of hair leading lower. You scraped your nails lightly across his ribs and felt the shudder go straight through him.

You didn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t. Not when that might make it real. Might make it mean something.

Instead, you let your body say it. Let him back you toward the couch. Let him understand without words that you were here. That you needed him.

He took the hint. Tugged the shirt over his head and tossed it aside. You sat, then reclined, the cushions sinking beneath you. His body followed, weight pressing into yours like gravity had decided this was inevitable.

His mouth found the curve of your jaw. “You sure?” he asked, voice low, ragged.

You nodded, breath catching. “Yeah.”

(You didn’t say: I came here because I couldn’t think anymore. Because I needed to be in my body and not in my brain. Because you’re the only place I stop feeling like a problem to solve.)

Cassian kissed you again, deeper now. His hands braced beside your head, elbows locked. You let your arms lift, let him tug your shirt off with quiet care. Your chest rose and fell too fast, too aware—but not embarrassed. Not with him.

He paused.

Looked at you. Not in hunger. Not in shock.

Just looked.

Like you were something worth noticing. Like you were real.

Your breath hitched, but you reached for him. Curled your fingers at the nape of his neck, thumb brushing through damp strands. “I’m good,” you whispered.

He kissed along your collarbone. Slow. Steady. One hand traced your side, the other dipped beneath your waistband with practiced ease.

He undressed you like he’d done it a hundred times—but never rushed. Never careless. Like every second spent revealing you was worth it.

And when he knelt between your legs, you let him. Watched him.

Cassian kissed the inside of your thigh first. Then higher. His hands gripped your hips—not tight, just firm, grounding. When he hooked his fingers under your underwear, you lifted your hips. No hesitation.

You wanted this.

He pulled the last of your clothes away slowly, gaze trailing behind like he needed to memorize each new inch of skin. When he finally lowered his mouth to you, it wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t shy.

It was everything.

You gasped the moment his tongue found you—firm, warm pressure right where you needed it. Your back arched. His arm slid beneath you to hold you steady, to keep you open, like this was his now—his to see, to unravel.

And you let him.

Your hands clutched at the couch cushions. Then his hair. Then nothing at all as he unraveled you with each stroke of his tongue. 

He didn’t pause. Didn’t relent. Just kept going, mouth and fingers working in devastating rhythm, chasing every twitch, every gasp, every please you didn’t have to say aloud.

And fuck, you were already close. Shamefully close. Everything in you was drawn tight, electric. You tried to breathe, to slow it down, but Cassian groaned low against you and the vibration tipped your balance. You gasped, one hand flying to his hair as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

“Stay with me,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice thick and rough. His fingers replaced his mouth, dragging through your slick with practiced precision. “Don’t check out on me. I want you here.”

You nodded frantically, not really hearing him, lips parted around a breath you couldn’t seem to catch.

And when his fingers curled inside you—strong and sure—while his mouth returned to your clit, the world broke.

You came with a sharp cry, your hips stuttering against his mouth, thighs trembling. The kind of release that felt like something cracking open. Like breathing underwater.

He worked you through it, never once letting up.

Even when you were limp. Even when your fingers slipped from his hair and your legs fell open again, unguarded.

Cassian pressed a kiss to your hip, soft and sure. A benediction.

Then he leaned up, lips brushing your ear.

“You still with me?”

Your voice was shaky. “Barely.”

His chest shook with a low laugh. “Good.”

And then you noticed—really noticed—that he was still half-dressed. His jeans hung low on his hips, the waistband slanted where you’d pulled him closer, where he’d pressed between your thighs like gravity demanded it. His shirt was long gone, thrown somewhere in the dark, but his pants remained—too much, too distant from where you wanted him. From where you ached.

Your gaze dropped. And your breath caught.

God, the way he looked like that—hair mussed from your fingers, skin flushed, lips wet from where he’d kissed you like you were the only quiet in the world. All of it only made worse by the obvious strain beneath his zipper, the thick, rigid outline pressing against denim like his body was past pretending.

You reached for him without speaking.

Your fingers found his belt buckle, cool metal against your fingertips.

You made quick work of the button, then dragged the zipper down slow enough to feel the moment his breath hitched—his hips twitching forward, involuntary. The backs of your knuckles brushed against him, through boxers now, and the heat of him made your mouth go dry.

Then you slipped from the couch to your knees, one smooth motion.

Cassian’s hand snapped out, catching yours before you could go further.

“Wait,” he breathed, voice low and tight. His fingers curled around yours, rough palm anchoring you. “You don’t have to—fuck—I just want to be inside you already.”

You tilted your chin up. Let your eyes meet his from under lowered lashes, hands still at his waistband. “You will be,” you murmured, voice like silk. 

Your fingers slid beneath the waistband of both jeans and boxers, and in one practiced motion, you tugged them down his thighs. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed dark at the tip, glistening at the slit. Beautiful. Heavy with want.

He looked like he might say something else, might try to stop you again—but you didn’t give him the chance.

You braced one hand at the base of him, warm and pulsing beneath your fingers, and took him into your mouth.

The sound he made—god—it was ruined. A low, unfiltered groan, like you’d punched the air from his lungs. His hand flew to your hair but didn’t push, didn’t guide—just held, fingers trembling where they tangled at your scalp.

You hollowed your cheeks as you took him deeper, jaw relaxing to accommodate the stretch. The taste of him, the heat of him—overwhelming, in a way that grounded you rather than scattered. You let your tongue drag slow along the underside of him on the way down, felt the way his thighs shook with the effort to stay still.

“Shit,” he gasped, hips jerking subtly forward. “(Y/n)—fuck—”

You hummed low around him, a vibration that had his breath stuttering. He swore again, louder, hand clenching in your hair as your rhythm smoothed—back, then down again, slow and steady and unrelenting.

He was panting now. One hand cradled your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge like he needed the contact. His body was twitching beneath your mouth, his restraint fraying with every breath.

“Gonna come if you keep—” His voice cut off in a ragged growl as you swallowed around him, your hand working the inches your mouth couldn’t reach.

You pulled back slowly, lips slick and swollen, a string of spit clinging between you.

Cassian looked like sin incarnate. 

Eyes half-lidded, dark with heat. Hair a tousled mess across his brow. His chest rose in hard, shuddering pulls, like his body didn’t know how to come down. Broad shoulders drawn tight, thighs still trembling where they’d bracketed you. 

You smiled—sweet, deadly.

“Guess you better fuck me then.”

Something shifted in his eyes. A flicker of hunger. Of heat that cracked straight through restraint.

Then he hauled you up in a single motion.

His mouth crashed against yours—needy, messy, devouring. He kissed you like he wanted to taste himself on your tongue, like he wanted to lose control and was daring you to take it from him.

His hands were already at your waist, guiding you into his lap, settling you across his thighs. You felt him between your legs—hard, hot, impossibly ready. His fingers gripped your hips, positioning you, steadying you.

Then he lined himself up.

No preamble. No warning.

He pulled you down just until the tip caught, just until the pressure made your breath hitch.

You glanced down at him, brows drawing tight—not pulling away, just pausing. Just giving him a look that said, Don’t be stupid.

Cassian caught it. Smirked, eyes dark. “I’ll pull out.”

And you didn’t even have time to think—seriously? Of course you’d say that, and god, I hate how much that works on me—before he snapped his hips up.

Hard.

Your body slammed down to meet him. The breath was punched out of you in a gasp as he filled you—deep, devastating, inch after inch sliding into heat and tightness until there was nothing left untouched.

Your hands scrambled for purchase—his shoulders, his arms, anywhere you could hold on. Your fingernails sank into his skin as your body clenched around him, as your moan shattered the silence without permission.

He didn’t move.

Just held you there. Impaled. Split open and full.

Like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

His jaw was clenched, throat bobbing with the effort to stay in control. But his eyes—god, those molten, honey-dark eyes—were fixed on where your bodies met like the sight alone was enough to undo him then and there.

“That’s it,” he said, voice a low rasp. “That’s what you needed, wasn’t it?”

You tried to nod, barely able to move. But his grip shifted, fingers digging into your waist.

“Words, (y/n).”

A gasp. A whisper. “Yes.”

Cassian groaned—deep and guttural—and rewarded you with a single, brutal thrust.

You cried out, thighs quaking, the motion sharp enough to shake the breath from your lungs.

“Good,” he rasped. “Now look at me.”

Your eyes had fluttered shut, overwhelmed by sensation. But his voice pulled you back.

“Eyes on me.”

You blinked them open. He was already looking at you, like he hadn’t looked away once.

“I want to watch you feel this,” he said, dragging you up just to slam you down again. “I want you to remember who fucks you like this.”

You could barely hold yourself upright. Every thrust drove you deeper into that heady, gasping, unthinking place—and fuck, you welcomed it.

“You needed this,” he said again, breath catching as you clenched around him. “Needed to get fucked dumb so you could stop thinking for five fucking minutes.”

“Yes,” you sobbed, not questioning how he knew. Your hands fisted in his hair now, on his shoulders, anywhere you could hold on.

“Then take it.” His hips snapped up again, harder. “Take all of it.”

He kissed you then—hot, open-mouthed, tongue dragging against yours like he meant to drown you in him.

And he didn’t let you look away. Not once.

You tried to meet him thrust for thrust, tried to breathe, to last, but Cassian was relentless. Every inch of him was focused, intentional, built to break you down until your body overrode your mind.

“That’s it,” he murmured, low and wrecked. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you get desperate.”

You whimpered—needy, wrecked—and that seemed to snap something in him.

His hands moved.

One curled around the back of your neck. The other slipped to your throat, warm and wide and so careful, but firm enough to draw your breath.

“I said,” he growled, “look at me.”

Your eyes flew open.

He held your gaze as he lifted you off him, groaning low, then turned your body like it cost him something to let go.

“Turn around.”

You didn’t move fast enough.

Cassian manhandled you into place, chest to your back, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other still cupped at your throat as he bent you over the arm of the couch.

“Hands flat. Back arched. Let me see you.”

You obeyed—palms splayed, spine curved, thighs parted. Offered.

“Good girl.”

The praise hit low in your belly—and then he was inside you again.

In one brutal, blinding thrust.

You cried out. No air left for shame.

“Fuck, that’s better,” he groaned. “Look how you take it. Just needed to stop thinking, didn’t you?”

You tried to respond. Couldn’t. Just keened under him, fingers curling into the cushions.

He leaned over you, voice hot and dark at your ear. “Tell me you like it like this. Say it.”

“I— I like it,” you gasped. “I like you—”

He thrust hard. You lost your breath again.

“You need it like this,” he said. “Go ahead.”

“I need it,” you choked. “Need you—like this—please—”

Cassian groaned—dark, primal.

And then he fucked you like he meant to carve it into you.

Every motion deliberate. Deep. Unforgiving.

Every command broke you open wider.

And when he finally pulled you up against him, one arm caging you to his chest as he fucked up into you from behind, you couldn’t hold yourself together anymore. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

“You wanna come?” he asked, voice ragged.

“Yes,” you sobbed.

“Say it.”

“Please—let me come—let me—”

“Good girl,” he groaned. “That’s it, keep going, sweetheart.”

He didn’t stop.

Didn’t let you stop.

And when he growled, “Come for me,” into your neck, your body shattered.

You came so hard you felt it in your teeth—ripping through you in waves, unstoppable, your cries muffled against your own arm.

Cassian held you through every pulse.

“Fuck,” he snarled, pace faltering. “You feel so good—fuck, I’m—”

He drove into you one last time.

And came with a groan so raw it sounded like relief.

You didn’t know if you were nodding or trembling. Maybe both.

He groaned, and you felt the way it vibrated against your back. “You’re not gonna come yet,” he said, biting back another curse as he slammed into you again. “Not until I say.”

Your hips jerked. “Cass—”

His hand tightened in your hair.

“You’ll wait for it. Or I’ll stop.”

You cried out—desperate, aching.

“Say yes,” he growled. “Say you’ll wait for me.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes—please, don’t stop—”

“That’s it.”

He pulled you upright, one arm banding tight across your stomach to hold you against him while he fucked up into you from behind. The new angle knocked every breath out of your lungs, heat crashing through you so fast it turned your knees to water.

“You’re doing so well, sweet girl,” he rasped, dragging his mouth across your shoulder. “Taking it so deep. So fuckin’ tight around me I can barely think.”

You were unraveling—barely tethered to anything but the sound of his voice, the stretch, the pressure, the way he held you like he owned you.

“Almost there,” he murmured, lips brushing your neck, his thrusts slowing just enough to let you feel every inch of him. “You wanna come, don’t you?”

You nodded, the motion barely more than a shiver.

His hand flattened over your lower belly, holding you in place, holding you together. “Then say it. Say you wanna come for me.”

“I—I want to,” you gasped, nearly sobbing from how badly you needed it. “Cass, please—I need to come—Let me come for you, please—”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He fucked into you hard, fast—deep and relentless. Every thrust hit something that made your nerves short out, made your vision go white at the edges. His arm across your front anchored you as everything else blurred.

“Go ahead,” he growled against your skin. “Come on, sweet girl. Let me feel you.”

The wave hit you hard—blinding, brutal, perfect. Your whole body clenched around him as you came with a cry, the kind you couldn’t bite back if you tried. He held you through it, fucking you through every pulse, every tremor, dragging it out until it left you shaking in his arms.

“That’s it,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your shoulder. “God, you’re so good when you’re like this.”

You were still trembling when he pulled you tighter against his chest, his rhythm turning erratic. “Fuck—fuck—I’m not gonna last—”

You reached back for him instinctively, anchoring yourself on his thigh, the desperation in your touch undoing him completely.

“Shit—yes—” he snarled, slamming into you once, twice, three more times before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a groan that sounded like surrender.

Silence fell like a curtain.

Heavy breathing. Sweat-slick skin. Your pulse rabbiting in your ears.

Cassian stayed still for a long moment.

His chest pressed against your back, both of you breathing hard, the weight of his arm still firm across your middle like he wasn’t ready to stop holding you. His nose nudged the curve of your neck, then your jaw, soft little passes like he was coaxing you back into your body.

And you—soft, undone, boneless—let him.

Because this, too, was something you’d needed. This quiet, careful after. 

“You good?” he asked eventually, voice low and rough but gentler now.

You nodded, the motion slow. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

“I got you,” he murmured, and he meant it.

One of his hands skimmed up your side—more soothing now than possessive—until it found yours and laced their fingers together. You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been clenching your jaw until your shoulders dropped, your grip going slack beneath his. The silence was warm now, not heavy. The kind you could rest in.

After a minute, he eased back, carefully slipping out of you, his touch almost reverent as he guided your body around so you were stretched out on the couch. He braced a hand against the cushion beside your head, leaned down and kissed your forehead. Like he wanted you to know none of it had been just heat.

“Be right back,” he said against your lips, then stood and padded into the kitchen.

You lay there staring at the ceiling for a second, the slick heat between your thighs already cooling, your pulse still fluttering in your throat. 

The bastard was lucky you weren’t ovulating. 

He returned with a damp towel and a bottle of water, crouching beside the couch to clean you up as gently as possible.

“Too much?” he asked, glancing up at you mid-motion.

You blinked at him. “No. It was… exactly what I needed.”

His answering smile was soft but a little proud. “Good. You were incredible.”

You took the water from him with a grateful murmur, sipping it slowly while he settled in behind you, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch over both of you.

His chest pressed warm against your back again. Not urgent this time. Just… steady.

“You always do that,” you said after a while, voice quiet.

“Do what?”

“Know exactly how to… be with me. Like you just read my mind and adjust.”

Cassian made a quiet sound, hand sliding up to rest over your ribs. “It’s not mind reading. I just pay attention.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “Maybe that’s rarer than I thought.”

He kissed the back of your shoulder—barely more than a brush of lips. “You deserve it either way.”

Neither of you said much after that.

Cassian’s breathing had evened out behind you, the steady rise and fall of his chest pressed to your spine, one of his arms slung over your waist like a drawstring. The room was quiet—just the tick of the wall clock, the low hum of the fridge, your hearts settling into something steady. Your body ached in all the right places. You felt wrung out, but in a good way. You’d finally managed to shut your brain off for more than a few minutes.

Then you said, almost absently, “…Y’know I talk to my therapist about you?”

Cassian blinked, shifting behind you slightly. “About how hot I am?”

You huffed a breath through your nose, but didn’t answer.

The silence stretched. You felt him go a little still.

“…What do you say about me?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You stared at the edge of the blanket. “Well, I guess I talk more about our situation.”

Cassian didn’t move.

You could feel the tension in the air shift—just slightly. Not bad. Just braced.

“He says it’s a form of self-harm,” you said.

That made him go quiet. Really quiet.

“…Huh.”

You turned a little, enough to glance at him over your shoulder. His brow was furrowed, but he didn’t look angry. Just surprised. Thoughtful, maybe.

It hadn’t been your theory. You hadn’t walked into Rhysand’s office last week with a name for it—just guilt. That same sour taste in your mouth after you’d so much as thought about every night like this. You’d talked around it at first, fumbling through the facts: that you weren’t looking for a relationship, that you kept things casual, that you and Cassian were friends and it worked, mostly.

And Rhysand had just listened. Calm. Steady. His expression unreadable in that annoying, quiet way of his that always meant he was seeing more than you were saying.

“I don’t think it’s about sex,” he’d said eventually. “At least not only.”

You’d tried to deflect—something about stress relief, about knowing what you were getting—but he’d just tilted his head slightly, gaze steady.

“You don’t reach for him when things are calm,” he’d said. “You reach when they’re bad. When you’re in freefall.”

You’d gone still at that. Sat with it. Let it sink into the space between you.

“And then?” he’d asked. “After?”

You hadn’t had to answer. He already knew.

“That’s not connection,” he’d said gently. “That’s self-punishment disguised as comfort.”

Now, lying here with Cassian—warm, steady, and tangled up in something he didn’t even know he was part of—you couldn’t stop hearing it.

“You know I’ve always been a romantic,” you said softly. “Hookups aren’t my thing.”

Cassian nodded once. “I know.”

“I’ve got this pattern,” you went on. “Where when things are good—when I feel safe or okay or even just neutral—I start to distance. I shut down. I find reasons to not text back, to pull away. And then when everything starts to go to shit again, when I can’t breathe or think or be without clawing at my own skin, I come running right back into your bed.”

His expression didn’t change. But his thumb started moving across your skin—barely there, just a slow, steady pass over your hip.

“It isn’t fair to you either,” you added, a little more quietly. “The push and pull.”

Cassian exhaled slowly. Not quite a sigh—more like he was trying to keep his own voice even.

“Okay,” he said after a long beat. “That’s… a lot. But I’m glad you said it.”

You swallowed. “Are you mad?”

“No,” he said immediately. “No, I’m not mad. I just—I didn’t know that’s what it was for you. I knew there was something going on, for sure. But…”

You looked away. “I know.”

Cassian’s hand slid from your waist to your back, smoothing up between your shoulder blades, grounding.

“So… what now?” he asked. Not unkindly. Not even expectantly. Just honest.

You didn’t answer right away.

Because that was the question, wasn’t it?

And right now, neither of you had the answer. Just the quiet. His thumb still brushing slowly against your back. 

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<- Chapter 5 ✦ Chapter 7 ->

[manicmanuscription]

P.1. Saturday Nights

PolySJM Week: Day Four

Prompt: Alternate Universe

Pairings: Mafia!BatBoys / Reader

Summary: You're a clueless waitress working in a mob restaurant, unknowingly catching the eye of its ruthless leaders. Surely a simple cut won't send them into a panic.

Heavily, Heavily inspired by @ jacfrostisreal clueless waitress series on TikTok!!

Tags: glood, gore, stitches, gullible reader

Word Count: 2059

A/N: Y'allllll I tried rewriting it like six times but ended up here so don't be holding it against me.....

PolySJM Week 2025 Masterlist | Acotar Masterlist | Series Masterlist

ೃ⁀➷ next part

I pressed the rag to my hand with a shaky inhale, watching as the white fabric turned pink from the cut, unable to stop the tears from spilling over. 

This was the worst shift ever. 

First I had to come in early to cover the host stand all because Esmeraie was having car troubles and I had a customer scream at me because I wouldn’t seat him and his wife as if I could magically make a table available. Then my very first table of the night ended up being absolutely horrendous. It was so damn busy tonight I’ve been running around like a chicken with its head cut off. I didn’t even realize I had cut myself on the plate I’d dropped until Chef pointed it out. 

I’ve had no time to even think, Sevenda’s was a high end restaurant known for excellent service and even better food. I usually thrived in high-pressure situations but tonight was another bad night in an awful week and I was reaching my breaking point. 

I let out another choked sob, my vision blurring with tears, I was hiding away in the thankfully empty break room. My coworkers had tried to help with the cut but I’d refused, snatching the rag out of Thane’s hand and running out of the kitchen before I started crying in front of them. 

God it hurt like a fucking bitch. My hands were starting to shake and I tried to focus on finding a first aid kit but my mind was buzzing with the weight of my emotions, overstimulation setting in and making my breathing hitch my nerves felt like they were on fire.

I let out a painful whimper, digging the rag further into my skin as if it would erase the prickling pain that was seeping down to my bones.

I stayed like that for a few more minutes until the rag turned fully red, trying and failing to breathe only to cry harder. It didn’t help that the sight of my own blood made me lightheaded. 

I didn’t even notice the door had opened until someone was standing right in front of me. Rhysand's citrus and sea scent invaded my senses and I tilted my head up to look at him. 

Mortification instantly washed over me upon seeing my boss, and I reached my free hand to wipe away the tears. Hopefully I didn’t look too much like a mess.  “H-Hi.” 

There was a dark look in his gaze as he took me in. “What’s happened?” He demanded, his silky voice making shivers run up my spine. “I’m Fi-Fine.” I stammered out, trying to stabilize my voice but speaking only made more tears burst forward, when I calmed down I was going to strangle myself for appearing like this in front of the freaking owner. 

My words seemed to have no effect on him and his large hands gently grabbed my injured one. I instinctively hissed in pain when he removed the rag from my palm. “I’m not gonna hurt you darling, I just need to see what’s going on so I can help you. Is that alright?” 

He brushed his thumb soothingly against the uninjured skin of my wrist and I nodded. Biting on the inside of my cheeks to hopefully keep the tears at bay. It was really sweet that he took such good care of his employee’s but guilt slowly crept in, he had been meeting with some of his friends in the back offices.

Before I even had a chance to apologize for ruining someone’s meal and hiding from my tables the door opened again and two familiar men walked in. Rhysand’s brother’s helped him manage the restaurant occasionally. Apparently thing’s must really be crazy because they’ve spent more time here.

“Marissa told us what happened.” Cassian said practically shoving his brother aside to take a look at my hand. I winced at his rough touch and Rhysand shot him a glare. “Be careful.” He snapped under his breath. 

Azriel was standing a few paces behind them, that intense stare settled on me and I wasn’t sure the male was even breathing. I could never get a good read on him. “I’m sorry for breaking the-the plate, I’m honestly fine, just need a bandage and I’m good to go.” I hiccuped, wiping my eyes again and taking a shuddering inhale. Doing my best to calm down and look presentable. These were my bosses afterall. 

“We don’t care about that.” Rhysand said, softening his tone as he shot me a charming smile that had my insides melting. Cassian’s brows furrowed as he inspected my wound. “She needs a stitch or two.” 

As soon as those words left his mouth it’s like someone doused my body in ice water. I snatched my hand from his. “No-No. It’s not that bad.” I spoke fearfully. Cassian stepped in front of me, blocking my view so it was just him and placed a new rag back on my hand, adding gentle pressure. The touch made my toes curl and I immediately banished those thoughts. They just didn’t want me to accidentally pass out, it was already bad enough I broke company property -again- was bleeding on the floor and hadn’t checked in my tables in fifteen minutes. “Really, it’s ok. I have tables. I promise I’ll get back to work- No hospital needed.” 

“You will do no such thing.” Rhysand said from my side, his eyes still on my trembling hands. His tone leaves no room for argument. “Don’t worry sweetheart.” Cassian said softly, brushing a piece of my hair behind my ear. 

His large muscled chest blocked my view so I didn’t see that Azriel had left the room but he returned with a small briefcase, setting it on the counter beside me and revealed what looks to be a small stash of high-grade medical supplies. I whimpered and stepped away, accidentally pressing myself to Rhysand’s side. 

“Y-You are…You’re gonna stitch me up. H-Here?” I squealed out, nausea rolling in my gut. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” 

“We have numbing tools, it’ll only hurt for a moment I promise.  Will you let us take care of you? We can take you to the hospital if you’d prefer. But either way you are not going to be walking around here with an open wound” Azriel finally spoke, that deep voice instantly soothing my nerves. 

“Not to be rude…But do you know what you’re doing?” I eyed the small army of supplies suspiciously.

“Yes.” The three brothers shared a look I didn’t fully understand but Cassian looked like I just kicked his puppy and Azriel’s confidence helped me calm down. 

“I didn’t know owning a restaurant was such a dangerous profession.” I quipped trying to distract myself. 

Rhysand chuckled underneath his breath, making me realize how truly close I was standing to him. I tried to take a step back to at least keep some of my dignity intact but he pulled me even closer, heart spread across my cheeks. “You’d be surprised.” 

Well.. That’s true I’d seen Roman with countless bandages, for someone who worked in the kitchen of a high-class restaurant you’d think he’d be better with a knife, he’d only told me it was ‘Part of his charm.’ 

A hospital scared me even worse, plus I would feel guilty. I nodded my agreement and Cassian lifted my wrist removing the rag. Both him and Azriel started cleaning it and I let out another whimper, black dots dancing in my vision at the sight of my own blood coming out of my body. 

Rhysand titled my chin to look at him, those dark blue eyes almost looking violet in this lighting. “Talk to me about something.” 

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, anything.” 

I paused, suddenly all my thoughts emptying when prompted. I opened my mouth to respond but suddenly a sharp burning sensation spread throughout my entire hand and I squealed in pain, pressing my head into Rhysand’s shoulder. He shushed me comfortingly, running a hand up and down my spine in soothing motions until all the pain just…disappeared. 

I pulled away to try and look at what they were doing to my hand. But he captured my attention with conversation once again. We talked about me losing my keys, my annoying neighbor playing loud music throughout all hours of the night, then eventually the rude customers at the host stand and the annoying tables I’d had. It was an easy conversation, making me forget all about my cut. Then I realized I was speaking badly about my job to the person who signed off on my paychecks. 

God this blood loss was making me lose my damn-minded. The way they were taking care of me softened something inside of me. It made my walls slip and I made stupid mistakes like thinking they liked me or telling my bosses bad things about my job. They were respectful to my coworkers and I tried to force myself to remember I was just an employee.

It did however warm my heart how much they cared about their employee’s well being and I tried to tamper down the jealousy that they might’ve taken care of my coworkers like this as well. 

We were extremely well taken care of here. Plus the tips were good which was surprising seeing as everyone knew rich people were monsters -Marisa told me it would be disrespectful to Rhys if they didn’t-. So they obviously had a good reputation for a reason.

So no, I was not going to risk a good job just because Rhys’ voice did things to my insides. That Cassian was making me laugh even as they sutured my hand and Azriel’s touch sent sparks down my spine. I tried to remind myself they were just good employers. Tried to not let it all get to my head 

This really was just not my night. 

Even if I would replay this moment in my head before I go to sleep every night in utter embarrassment, these were my freaking bosses and they had seen me crying and in pain. Not my best moment. 

“Sorry…This is your restaurant. I like my job. Don’t fire me.” I spoke, playing it off with an awkward laugh but Rhysand just gave me another of those dazzling smiles. “Trust me, we’re not going to fire you.” 

“All done.” Azriel spoke gruffly and I hadn’t even realized how much time had passed until I was staring at my newly bandaged palm. “Wow…Thank you guys! I truly am sorry about all of this. I promise to be more careful. It won’t happen again. I’ll get back to my tables.” 

“You’re not going back to work.” They all spoke at the same time, those dark eyes settling on me until I squirmed slightly. They really were too attractive for their own good. Maybe I really did need to find a new job because god the things I wanted to do to these men was anything but professional. 

“It’s a busy Saturday night, I’ve already been avoiding my tables for a long time. Marisa is going to kill me.” 

“Wasn’t negotiable Darling.” Rhysand said in that demanding tone again. 

“Rhysand, Sir-”

“We’ve talked about this. It’s Rhys.” 

“Alright…..Rhys.” I appeased him even if it felt wrong, the nickname tasted unfamiliar on my tongue and way too intimate. “I promise I’m fine. You don’t have to do that.” 

I had bills to pay after all, and as if he was reading my mind- “You’ll be reimbursed for the injury.” 

I bit my lip anxiously, of course I was excited to go home and rest, maybe catch up on some trashy tv show but I would feel horrible leaving my coworkers all alone on a busy night like this. “Are you sure? If you need me I’m happy to stay, plus the injury was my fault-”

“We’ll see you next in a few days, get some good rest.” It was Azriel who spoke this time.

I nodded, giving them a soft smile. “Ok..well thank you so much guys I really appreciate it.” 

After grabbing my things and going over how to take care of my wound with Azriel I left, thanking them again for their help. They really were great bosses. 

── °ꨄ︎｡ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ｡ꨄ︎° ──

ೃ⁀➷ next part

[surielstea]

Spelling it Out

Based on a request.

Pairing: Cassian x Fem!Reader

Summary: Reader is a bit oblivious to Cassian’s flirtations, so Cassian has to go the extra mile to prove he truly wants her.

Warnings: Cassian probably makes some suggestive jokes somewhere in here, but it’s all fluff! :)

4.6k words.

"I brought coffee," I announce as I step into the studio's warm embrace, the door swinging shut behind me to keep the morning chill at bay. I balance the two cups in one hand, the other cradling the new set of paints Feyre had asked me to pick up this morning.

"Back here!" Feyre's voice carries from the storage room, muffled slightly by the rustling of cardboard.

I follow the sound, stepping into the small back area where she's surrounded by half-unpacked boxes. She exhales in relief as she rushes up to me, taking her coffee with eager hands.

"You're a lifesaver," she groans, lifting the steaming cup to her lips. "Thank you."

I set the paints down, glancing at the boxes. "I thought the shipments were too heavy to unload?"

Feyre hums around her coffee, eyes twinkling. "Oh, I had help—"

Before she can finish, a figure stalks through the doorway, his presence effortlessly filling the space. A box—one that Feyre and I together had struggled to move—rests in his arms like it weighs nothing.

"This should be the last one," the male says, setting it down with casual ease.

His voice is deep, rough-edged in a way that demands attention. I take in the broad cut of his shoulders, the way his wings shift behind him, arching slightly as he straightens. And then I see his face—hazel eyes rich as molten gold, a scar cutting through his dark brow, and a mouth curled into an easy, knowing smile. He's ruggedly handsome, but not in that delicate, ethereal way most High Fae are. No, he's something else entirely—something solid, real.

"Help from Cassian," Feyre finishes, amusement lacing her tone.

The name stiles me immediately, and I was a fool for not immediately putting it together the second I saw him. Cassian. Lord of Bloodshed.

He turns his gaze to me, openly assessing, and I take the opportunity to do the same. There's something about the way he looks at me, like he's mapping every detail—filing it away for later.

"I didn't know we'd have company," I say, forcing my focus back to the present. "I would've brought another coffee."

Cassian huffs a soft laugh. "Oh, no need. I've been up for hours." His voice carries the same warmth as his grin, rough yet inviting. "But that's a kind gesture."

I nod, offering a small smile in return.

"I don't believe you two have officially met," Feyre chimes in, shifting her attention between us. "Cass, this is my very talented friend. She keeps this place running."

"She gives me too much credit," I say, shaking my head.

Cassian, however, tilts his head, his expression unreadable. "I doubt that." The certainty in his tone knocks something loose in my chest.

"This is Cassian," Feyre continues, grinning. "Rhys' brother and the best guy to call for lifting heavy things."

Cassian makes a sound of protest. "Don't forget hilarious, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—I mean, the list goes on."

I huff a quiet laugh as he extends his hand.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Cassian." I smile as I take his hand.

His fingers close around mine, warm and calloused, his grip firm but not overwhelming.

"Likewise, sweetheart." His smirk deepens, and before I can pull away, his thumb brushes ever so slightly over the back of my hand—a touch so fleeting, so deliberate, that I almost convince myself I imagined it. Then he winks, a quick, knowing thing, before finally releasing me.

I swallow, ignoring the odd flutter in my stomach. I've heard the stories from Feyre, how when she originally arrived in the night court she may as well have ended up with Cassian with his relentless flirting. He's joking, I remind myself. That's just how he is.

Cassian dusts his hands off on his leathers before flashing me an easy grin. "You must be the one keeping Feyre sane around here."

I huff a quiet laugh, setting down the paints. "I do my best. But she keeps me busy."

"She does that," he muses, glancing at Feyre. "Though I didn't realize she had such a beautiful assistant."

I blink at him, caught off guard. "Oh—I'm not really her assistant. More like a glorified errand runner."

Feyre scoffs. "That is not true."

Cassian's gaze flicks back to me, assessing. "You're an artist too, then?"

I nod while shucking off my winter coat and hanging it on the back of a chair. "That's the idea."

His grin widens. "Now I'm definitely going to start hanging around more. I could use a few painting tips."

Feyre snorts. "You paint?"

"Not yet," he says, unbothered. "But I'm a fast learner. And I've always appreciated a good work of art."

Something about the way he says it, about the way his hazel eyes flick over me like he's taking his time, makes my stomach flutter.

But before I can respond, he flashes me a smirk, turning back to Feyre. "Anyway, mission accomplished. Boxes are in, and I fully expect my reward."

"Which is?" Feyre asks dryly.

Cassian smirks. "Your eternal gratitude. And maybe a good bottle of whiskey, if Rhys is feeling generous."

Feyre rolls her eyes, but I can't help my smile.

"How about next time we need your help, you'll be the first one we call?" I suggest, noticing Feyre's playful disinterest in rewarding him for being a good friend.

Cassian grins like I've just made his day. "Oh, sweetheart. You can call me anytime."

His voice drops just enough to send an odd warmth curling through my stomach. But before I can overthink it, he turns toward the door.

Cassian turns slightly, glancing at me and Feyre. "I'll be seeing you around, hopefully." He directs at me. "See you for dinner, Feyre."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving only the scent of wind and cracking embers in his wake.

I shake my head, amused, as I turn back to Feyre—only to find her already watching me over the rim of her coffee cup.

"What?"

She only smirks, taking a slow sip. "Nothing."

I frown but brush it off, reaching for the new paints.

Cassian was just being friendly. That's all.

Right?

—

From that moment on, Cassian made every excuse to come to the studio. Half the time, he didn't even bother with a valid reason—just threw out a casual "I was in town" when, in reality, he always was. Velaris wasn't nearly as big as he made it out to be.

The bell above the door rang, and I didn't need to look up to know whose footsteps were approaching behind me.

"Is that supposed to be a bird?" Cassian mused, leaning over my shoulder.

I scoffed, shoving his face away. "It's a dog, and you know it."

He chuckled, easily dodging my half-hearted push and settling right back beside me. "Mmm. If you say so." His wings rustled as he peered at my work again, this time with something softer in his expression. "It's amazing, sweetheart. You're so damn talented."

The sincerity in his voice made my stomach flutter. I tilted my head back to look up at him, caught off guard by the rare note of awe in his tone.

That awe melted into something else—something warm and teasing—as he placed both hands on my shoulders and started kneading gently.

I nearly groaned on the spot. "Gods, you're perfect at that." I exhaled, practically melting under his touch.

Cassian hummed, his thumbs working expertly over the knots in my shoulders.

I sighed blissfully, rolling my shoulders into his hands. "You should've been a healer."

He chuckled, his breath fanning against my ear. "I'd rather just take care of you, sweetheart."

I smiled, tilting my head further into his touch, completely missing the way his fingers stilled for a beat before continuing their slow, deliberate strokes.

"You really are tense," he murmured, pressing into the tight muscles just beneath my neck. "Is this what happens when you spend all day hunched over, painting little dogs that look like birds?"

I smacked his arm lightly. "If you're going to insult my work, at least pretend to be subtle about it."

"Who said anything about insulting?" His thumbs dug in a little deeper, his voice dropping just enough to make my skin heat. "I love watching you work. All focused, biting your lip, completely lost in it."

I wrinkled my nose. "That makes me sound like some kind of absent-minded hermit."

Cassian grinned. "A very cute absent-minded hermit."

I rolled my eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Cassian."

"That's funny because I feel like it's getting me everywhere," he mused, his hands still kneading at my shoulders. "You're practically purring."

"I am not purring," I argued, though I made no move to stop him.

"Cassian, stop distracting my employees!" Feyre's voice rang from the back room, laced with exasperation.

Cassian smirked, straightening up from where he'd been massaging my shoulders. "Employee," he corrected with a lazy grin. "And I'm motivating her."

I rolled my eyes, but the warmth of his hands still lingered on my skin, a phantom pressure I refused to dwell on.

He chuckled, stepping back, stretching in that way that made every muscle in his absurdly broad body flex just enough to be noticed. His wings flared slightly, shifting behind him like an afterthought before he shot me another smirk. "I'll let you get back to it, sweetheart." Then, with a slow tilt of his head—"Unless you'd rather take a break and let me keep working these magic hands?"

My breath caught for half a second before I forced myself to scoff. "No," I said, ignoring the small blush creeping up my neck. "But... could I ask you a favor?"

Cassian perked up instantly, arms folding over his chest. "Anything, gorgeous."

I hesitated, suddenly second-guessing myself, but forged ahead. "I need to paint an anatomical feature I've been studying. I have a few reference images, but..." I swallowed, glancing at his wings. "I was hoping I could use you as a live model?"

His brows lifted, hazel eyes gleaming with intrigue. "My wings?"

I nodded. "Your wings are far more magnificent than the sketches in my book."

The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how they sounded—how appreciative they were—and my face went hot.

Cassian, of course, took full advantage. His wings stretched slightly as if preening under the attention. "You just trying to get me shirtless, sweetheart?"

A very unhelpful image flashed in my head—of him, shirtless, all sculpted muscle and golden skin, wings fanned out behind him in the studio's soft light.

"No!" I blurted, before catching myself. "I mean—it's just for the wings."

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. "Only teasing, sweetheart. I'd love to."

I exhaled in relief. "Good. Are you free tomorrow?"

He tilted his head, grinning. "I'm here whenever you want me."

Something about the way he said it made my stomach flip.

I bit my lower lip slightly, nodding. "Thank you."

"I wouldn't thank me so fast," he mused, gaze flicking to me with unmistakable mischief. "You owe me after this."

I narrowed my eyes. "Owe you what?"

Cassian made a show of looking away, tapping his chin as though deep in thought. "Haven't decided yet," he hummed, lips twitching. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I'll think of something."

I huffed, waving him off. "Go bother someone else, Cassian."

He gave a dramatic bow, smirk firmly in place. "As you wish."

And with that, he sauntered off, wings twitching ever so slightly as he disappeared into the back of the studio—leaving Feyre standing there, watching me, amusement dancing in her eyes.

I turned back to my canvas, heat still prickling my skin.

—

I wasn't nervous.

There was no reason to be nervous.

It was just a painting. Just a model session. Nothing different from the dozens I'd done before.

Except, of course, this time the model was Cassian. And he was currently standing in the doorway of the studio, a lazy, devastatingly handsome grin on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Told you I'd be here whenever you wanted me."

I cleared my throat, turning away quickly to gather my supplies. "Yes, well, I'd rather not have students knocking over easels trying to get a look at you, so we're setting up in the back."

He let out a low chuckle as he followed me. "What, afraid they'll get distracted?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, but I know you will."

"Fair point."

Once we stepped into the back room—where there were no prying eyes or interruptions—I pointed to the stool in the center of the space. "Sit there, facing away from me."

Cassian obeyed, but not before flashing me a smirk. "Getting bossy already?"

I ignored him, busying myself with setting up my canvas. "You can take off your shirt now."

"Damn, sweetheart—at least buy me dinner first."

I froze mid-motion, whipping my head around. "That's not—I didn't—"

Cassian just laughed, reaching over his shoulder to grab the back of his collar. In one smooth motion, he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it onto a nearby table.

I regretted looking.

Because Mother above.

Cassian was made of solid muscle—thick, powerful shoulders, his back broad and sculpted as if the Cauldron had taken extra care in crafting every ridge, every dip, every inch of him. His wings, folded neatly against his back, only added to the sheer size of him.

I swallowed hard, thankful beyond belief that he was facing away.

"You good back there?" Cassian teased.

"I'm fine," I said, maybe a little too quickly.

I turned my attention to his wings. The pose needed to be just right—relaxed but natural, something that would emphasize their power without looking stiff or unnatural. I stepped forward, lifting my hands, then hesitated.

"Can I touch?" I asked softly, if there was one thing I learned from studying Illyrian anatomy it's that their wings were sensitive, sacred.

Cassian went still.

For a moment, there was silence. Then—so quiet I almost missed it—his breath hitched.

When he spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. "Yeah, sweetheart. Go ahead.

I exhaled slowly before pressing my fingertips to the strong, leathery membrane of his wing. Warmth radiated from him, the muscle beneath my touch twitching slightly as I carefully adjusted his positioning.

It was... exhilarating, in a way. To be granted access to something so personal.

I stepped back to assess the placement. "Are they too heavy to hold like that?"

Cassian laughed. "That's adorable."

I frowned. "What?"

"Sweetheart, these wings have carried me through battle, through storms, through the Illyrian mountains at full speed. I think I can manage to hold them still for a few hours."

I huffed. "Fine. But will you be able to sit still?"

That earned me another chuckle, this one softer. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

I shook my head and finally picked up my pencil, settling in front of my canvas.

"Alright," I murmured to myself, letting my nerves melt away as I focused on the work ahead. "Let's begin."

The soft scratch of pencil against canvas filled the room, steady, rhythmic—an anchor keeping me grounded as I worked.

I started with the shape of his wings, mapping out their vast expanse, the way they framed his body like an extension of his very presence. The leather stretched taut over powerful muscle, lined with delicate veins and faint, nearly imperceptible scars.

I shouldn't have been staring so intently.

I shouldn't have been so utterly captivated by every detail of him.

And yet, as I let my pencil glide over the page, shaping the curve of his shoulder blades, the slope of his spine, the corded muscles of his back... I couldn't stop.

He's just a model. Just another subject.

Then why did my fingers tremble slightly when I shaded the deep ridges of his scars? Why did my chest tighten at the thought of what he must have endured to earn them?

Cassian shifted slightly, flexing his shoulders, his wings twitching.

I snapped out of my daze, scowling. "Sit still."

He huffed a laugh. "I don't think I've ever sat this still in my entire life."

I hummed in response, refocusing. Carefully, I traced the lines of his back, the contours of muscle that spoke of centuries of battle, of training, of dedication. My gaze flicked up to his wings again, and a quiet sigh escaped me.

"What's that sound for?" he asked, the amusement clear in his voice.

I hesitated, then admitted, "They really are beautiful, you know."

Cassian stilled for a fraction of a second before letting out a soft chuckle. "Careful, sweetheart. Keep saying things like that and I might start thinking you actually like having me here."

I rolled my eyes. "You act like I don't."

Silence.

A pause, just long enough to make my stomach flutter with uncertainty.

Then, "Good. I like being here."

I pressed my lips together, pretending that warmth hadn't bloomed in my chest at his words. Pretending that I wasn't getting lost in the strong, elegant lines of his body.

I dipped my brush into the paint, moving on from the sketch to the first careful strokes of color.

Cassian's voice broke through the quiet. "You know, if you wanted a full anatomy study, you could've just asked."

I blinked, pulling back slightly. "...What?"

He turned his head just enough to smirk at me over his shoulder. "You're painting my back, too, aren't you?"

My cheeks heated. "Well—yes, but—"

"Seems unfair to only get half the view."

I huffed. "I don't need the full view, Cassian."

His smirk deepened. "That's a shame. I'd be a very cooperative model."

I nearly choked on air. "Just—shut up and sit still."

He laughed, the sound warm and rich, settling in my bones.

I shouldn't have been enjoying this so much.

I shouldn't have been admiring the golden-brown glow of his skin, the way the light cast soft shadows over the planes of his back. I shouldn't have let my eyes linger on the scars that marred him—proof of all he had endured, of everything he had survived.

And I certainly shouldn't have wished that all his teasing, all his flirtation, was anything more than just casual banter.

Cassian was like this with everyone.

Wasn't he?

I was not going to let Cassian distract me.

Even if he was currently sprawled in front of me, shirtless, his wings stretched just so, his body the most stunning thing I'd ever painted.

Even if his words curled around me like smoke, warm and teasing, making my thoughts race in ways they shouldn't.

I swallowed hard and turned my attention back to the canvas, forcing myself to focus.

I just had to finish the painting.

And ignore the way my heart had begun to beat just a little too fast.

The rhythmic strokes of my brush filled the quiet space, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of bristles against canvas and the steady sound of Cassian's breathing.

Nearly an hour has passed, and to his credit, he'd been holding still remarkably well. Mostly.

"You're awfully quiet back there, sweetheart," Cassian mused, his voice carrying just the hint of a smirk. "Not getting bored, are you?"

I huffed, dipping my brush into a deeper shade of pigment. "I'm working, Cassian."

"I am your work right now."

I rolled my eyes. "And you're a very high-maintenance subject."

Cassian chuckled. "I prefer engaging. You should be thanking me, really. Keeps things from getting dull."

I let out a soft laugh despite myself. "You're half-naked in front of me, Cassian. Things aren't exactly dull."

Silence.

A beat too long.

I froze as I realized what I'd just said.

Cassian's wings twitched. Then, "Well, well."

I groaned. "Forget I said that."

"Oh, absolutely not." He turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the smug curve of his lips. "You just admitted to being entertained by me. I'm savoring this moment."

"I said forget it."

"Nope. It's mine now."

I sighed, glaring at the canvas like it had personally wronged me.

Cassian chuckled again but thankfully let it drop, settling back into his position.

A few minutes passed in something almost resembling peace. I worked on layering in the first washes of color, the warm tones of his skin against the deeper hues of his wings.

Then—"So, do I get a say in how I'm portrayed?"

I lifted a brow. "Are you worried about artistic liberties?"

"A little."

I fought back a smile. "I could make you look very dramatic, if that's what you're asking. Add some storm clouds in the background. Maybe a tragic tear rolling down your face."

Cassian snorted. "As tempting as that sounds, I'd rather not be mistaken for some brooding, tortured soul."

I hummed. "That is Azriel's aesthetic."

"Exactly. We can't both have it."

"I don't know," I mused. "I think it could work. Maybe a single candle for dramatic lighting—"

"Absolutely not."

I grinned, but before I could make another remark, Cassian stretched, his wings flexing slightly before tucking back into place. The movement was so fluid, so casual—so utterly him.

I quickly went in with another light sketch, wanting to capture the way his muscles moved, the effortless strength in his frame.

"You still with me back there?" he teased, amusement lacing his voice.

"Yes, Cassian. Some of us are capable of focusing."

"Some of us just don't need to focus that hard to admire what's in front of us."

I frowned slightly, not quite catching his meaning. "What?"

He chuckled. "Nothing, sweetheart."

I shook my head, deciding not to press it.

"Alright," I finally said, leaning back to study my work. "I have the basics down. You can put your shirt back on now."

Cassian made a low, exaggerated noise of disappointment. "Damn. And here I was hoping you'd need me to pose for a few more hours."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't sound too heartbroken. I will be making you sit for another session later."

His grin was wicked. "You just can't get enough of me, can you?"

"Shut up and put your shirt on, Cassian."

He laughed, grabbing his discarded shirt—but the knowing look in his eyes told me that he'd be holding onto this moment for a long time.

And for some reason, I didn't mind one bit.

—

Cassian came in for many sessions after that.

I probably could've finished the painting on my own after the first few sittings, but he insisted I get all the colors right, all the details perfect. And, well... I wasn't exactly going to complain about having him shirtless in front of me for hours on end.

So, day after day, he showed up, sauntering into the studio with that insufferable smirk, stretching his wings like he owned the place. And I let him, indulged him—indulged myself—until the painting was finally finished, until there was no reason for him to sit for me anymore.

The thought left a strange hollowness in my chest, but I ignored it, focusing instead on adding the final highlights to his wings.

Cassian shifted in his seat, rolling his shoulders.

I glanced up. "Getting restless?"

He grinned. "You gonna keep me trapped here all day, sweetheart?"

I smirked. "You're free to go anytime." I glanced at the painting. "But you'd be leaving unfinished art behind, and that would just be tragic."

Even though all I had left to add was a small, near-invisible highlight, I liked the idea of keeping him there just a little longer.

Cassian chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. I'll sit still for you a little longer."

Something in the way he said it—for you—sent a ripple of warmth through me, but I shoved it aside. I exhaled, finally setting my brush down.

"Alright," I said, stretching my arms. "You're officially free."

Cassian groaned dramatically, standing and rolling his neck. "Finally." He grabbed his shirt, but instead of putting it on, he slung it over his shoulder, turning toward me with that insufferable smirk. "Is it done?"

I turned the easel slightly toward him.

It was hard to admire my own work. After staring at it for so long in every unfinished form, I wasn't sure if I loved it or if I just loved the image I had painted. But I could say I was proud of it. That was enough.

Cassian stepped closer, blinking at the still-wet canvas. His brows lifted, his mouth parted slightly. He didn't speak, didn't crack a joke, didn't smirk like he usually did.

I shifted under his gaze. "Well?"

He inhaled, slow. "Sweetheart..." He sounded almost reverent. "It's... it's beautiful."

A laugh bubbled from my lips. "You're only saying that because it's you I painted."

"No—I mean, I am beautiful, but this is... magnificent." His voice was softer than usual, quieter.

Something flickered in his eyes as he turned toward me, something warm and fond. It was enough to make my stomach flip.

I swallowed. "Thanks, Cass."

His grin returned. "Proud of yourself?"

I nodded, offering a small smile. "Yeah. I am."

His wings twitched. "Good. You should be."

A comfortable silence settled between us for a moment, the weight of his words pressing into me in a way I wasn't sure how to handle.

Then Cassian cleared his throat, stretching his arms over his head. "Now that it's finished..."

Something about the way he said it sent a prickle of anticipation down my spine.

He grinned. "...About my favor?"

I groaned. "You actually kept track of that?"

Cassian scoffed. "Sweetheart, I'd never forget a promise like that." He crossed his arms over his broad chest, eyeing me like he was scheming. "And I know exactly what I want."

A slow, lazy smirk curled his lips.

And for some reason, my stomach flipped all over again.

I raised a brow, waiting.

Cassian took a step forward. Then another.

My stomach flipped. "Okay?"

"I want you to go out with me."

I blinked. "What?"

His smirk deepened. "That's my favor. You and me. A date."

I stared at him, sure I'd misheard. "You're joking."

"Nope."

My heart did something strange, something uneven, and I let out a short, breathy laugh. "Cassian, you flirt with everyone."

"Not like this." His voice was quieter now. Steady.

I swallowed. "But—you're just messing with me. You've been messing with me this whole time."

Cassian sighed, running a hand down his face. "Gods, you're impossible." Before I could react, he stepped closer, hands coming up to cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks.

My breath hitched.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, tilting my chin up slightly. "Listen to me. I have not spent weeks finding every excuse under the sun to come here, sitting shirtless for hours just so you'd look at me, calling in a whole-ass favor just to take you out—just to mess with you."

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Cassian's thumbs brushed against my skin again, his hazel eyes locked on mine. "I like you. I want you. And I swear to the Gods, if I have to spell it out anymore, I'm going to start carving it into the damn walls."

I let out a breathless laugh, my face burning. "You're serious."

His lips curled. "Took you long enough."

I exhaled, shaking my head slightly. "I—"

"Just say yes, sweetheart," he murmured, voice teasing, but there was something else in his gaze—something warm, something steady. Something real.

I swallowed hard. Yes."

Cassian grinned. "Good choice."

His hands lingered on my face for just a second longer before he pulled back, grabbing his shirt off his shoulder and throwing it on. He shot me one last smirk as he backed toward the door.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow after your class."

And with that, he was gone, leaving me standing there—heart racing, mind spinning, trying to process the fact that Cassian had actually just asked me out.

That all this time, he hadn't been messing with me at all.

Feyre was going to laugh at me for not catching on sooner when I tell her.

General Taglist: @fxckmiup @olive-main @iluvyewman-blog @gaymistakeboi @glitterypirateduck @amara-moonlight @impossibelle @fauxdette @going-through-shit @glam-targaryen @hufflepuff-pa55 @sarawritestories @tele86 @rogerbarnesxx @azriels-shadowsinger @stinkinstuffie @sandramalikstyles-blog @sassyangel16 @lilah-asteria @starsinyourseyes @inloveallthetime @melsunshine @nighttimemoonlover @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @cumuluscranium @adharanotfound @azrielsmate3 @aelincaddel @hiddlestonspassionsackx @dee-writes-angst @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @pit-and-the-pen @mybestfriendmademe @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @circe143 @bubybubsters @joshysloshy @username199945 @ivy-34 @notsarareallynot @vixenshiftsvrs @aurorab99 @pey2618 @loving-and-dreaming @mmg777 @andreperez11 @thatacotargirl @123345566 @one-big-fangirl @moonslitluna @imyherondale @salvawhxres @bookishbabyyyy @anuttellaa @breadsticks2004 @azriels-human @mamita-vera @demetercabingreen-thumb @lorosette @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tothestarsandwhateverend @ahaha0246 @mellowmusings @mythicalcookie

[idkyetxoxo]

The Ruin | Rhysand | Series Masterlist

Pairing -��Rhysand x reader (Mafia Boss Rhysand x Nurse Reader)

Summary - She became a nurse to save lives, but forgot her own in the process. Clinging to a fading dream, she moves through blood and sirens with soft hands and a cracking heart.

Then came Rhysand. Too sharp, too poised, too dangerous. He watches her like she's a secret only he knows. He shouldn't care. But he does.

What begins as a quiet obsession blooms into something electric. Loving him means stepping into the dark and realising it feels like home. Is he the ruin of her, or her only way out?

A story of a girl raised to heal, and a man who only knew how to destroy—until her.

Tags - mafia romance, opposites attract, obsessive love, protective male, morally grey love interest, burned for love

Contents -

⚡︎ One | Burnt Wings | 3.4k words

⚡︎ Two | Thin Lines | 2.2k words

⚡︎ Three | Threadbare | 2.7k words

⚡︎ Four | Sweet Interruptions | 2.9k words

⚡︎ Five | Love Lies | 2.1k words

⚡︎ Six | The Quiet Burn | 3.1k words

⚡︎ Seven | Worship | 3k words

⚡︎ Eight | Sacrifice | 2.3k words

⚡︎ Nine | The Way Back | 2.3k words

⚡︎ Ten | Sugary Kisses | 2.4k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing.

This is an AU series and a little bit self-indulgent :) As someone who works in healthcare, I have a good understanding of the field, but for the sake of the story, I've taken some creative liberties. So if you notice anything that doesn't quite align with real-life medical practice, that's why!

I actually wrote an Azriel mafia AU first, but this one is being posted before it. Not that anyone’s keeping track, but just in case you were wondering why that one isn’t up yet :)

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Your likes, reblogs and comments mean the world to me <3

[seleneprince]

ACOSF, except that Nesta refuses to move to the House of Wind and packs her bags to leave to the "human lands", but instead of actually going there, she stops at the Spring Court and kinda forces Tamlin to take her in. After all, Spring is close enough to the human lands and she's sure none of the IC would look for her Spring.

She and Tamlin clash at first, but then Nesta tells him that Feyre wanted to lock her in the House of Wind for "her own good" and Tamlin has to take a walk outside the house to not break anything because what the fuck? Those people haven't forgiven him for locking Feyre up to protect her and make him miserable because of it, but suddenly it's okay when they do it? Unbelievable.

They drink together and bond over the Night Court's hypocrisy, how they were treated by them, and Feyre. They start living together. Tamlin plays the music and Nesta dances to it. They spend time in silence in his library or taking relaxing strolls around the garden. Nesta does more healing there that she could've done in the House of Wind. Eventually, she and Tamlin become good friends.

Oh, and she meets Eris again and they actually get to know each other outside the Night Court's machinations. They have a slowburn romance and get married eventually, turning Nesta into the High Lady of Autumn. She helps Tamlin rebuild his court and strikes an alliance between both courts, and she thrives with positive relationships and a man that genuinely loves her and doesn't try to change her.

Also Lucien makes up with Tamlin and returns to Spring, adding him to Nesta's friendship circle.

[shadowdaddies]

obsessed with this batboys band au

from elenana.art on Instagram

[lalacliffthorne]

a summer storm and movie night with the whole gang 🍿💕

(this is so long it might as well count as a one shot, but it's also just so wholesome and cosy)

"Cass?", I yell, my voice slightly muffled. "Help!"

I hear the creaking of the couch and heavy steps closing in quickly. Then they falter, followed by a loud snort.

"What the fuck -"

"Hlep," I mumble softly.

There's a deep, barely suppressed laugh somewhere on the other side of the mattress that I've been dragging from Cassian's room and somehow managed to get stuck in the doorway. Then a tattooed hand appears above me and pats my head.

"It's okay, sweets, I got you." Cassian sounds like he's grinning widely, and I grumble and somehow manage to flip him off.

"Get it off me!"

There's a tug, then the mattress drops forward, and I plummet forward with it, barely managing to catch myself in the doorframe.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Cassian holds out a hand, and when I grab it, he pulls me over the mattress and catches me before I can faceplant. There's a grin on his face as he holds me upright until I find my footing, squeezing my waist before looking down at the mattress, and I huff and straighten, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.

"Want to set up the living room before the others get here, and your mattress is the biggest, so -"

"Why didn't you say anything; I would've helped you, you little shithead." Shaking his head, Cassian leans down and easily lifts the mattress off the ground, propping it against the doorframe.

"I don't know, you were busy," I grumble and straighten my t-shirt.

"Never too busy for you, sweetheart." Cassian crunches his brows dramatically, then breaks into a wide grin when I kick his shin.

Chuckling under his breath, Cass nudges my side, creases forming in his cheeks when he nods towards the living room. "C'mon, let's move the coffee table out of the way before we get this thing in there."

Sighing, I slip past him, and Cass follows me.

The living room is dunked in warm light, the door to the balcony open. The first summer storm is brewing outside, thick dark clouds are covering the sky and the air smells sweet and faintly like rain.

Cass and I carry the coffee table over to the windows, then we push the armchairs together so they form a backrest. I squint at the now empty space between the couches, then I lean myself against the right one to move it to the side a little.

"Hrghhh..."

My feet slide over the hardwood floors, and there's a snort behind me. Then Cass starts laughing, his shoulders shaking and head tipping back.

"Stop laughing and help me," I whine, barely holding back the giggle beginning to bubble in my own chest, and Cass shakes his head with a wide grin, dimples digging into his cheeks when he helps me drag the couch a few feet back.

Together, we pull his mattress into the space between the couches. Then I go and get the blankets and array of pillows from my own. I can barely see over the big heap as I carry it back into the living room, but I manage to not run into any doorways. Cass disappears into his bedroom to get his own blanket before carrying Azriel's and Rhys' duvets into the living room.

When the pillows are finally arranged and the duvets cover the couches, I'm fanning myself. "Fucking hell, please make it rain soon."

Cassian plops down with a groan and stretches out in the middle of the mattress, his muscles bunching for a few seconds before he relaxes and drops his head onto one of my pillows, brows crunching. "Why don't we just always have it like this; this is fucking amazing."

"I don't know." I climb over the couch and happily plop down next to him. Shuffling around until I can rest my head on his stomach, I relax dramatically and exhale.

Slowly, my eyes slide shut. The scent of Cassian's cologne rises into my nose, mixing with the heavy scent of coming rain and a slightly cooler breeze brushing in through the window. Cassian's torso moves under my head with his slow, even breaths, shifting when he props his head onto his arm. Outside, the first raindrops hit the stone of the balcony.

The peace is abruptly interrupted when there's a deep call of my name.

I grumble, and Cassian's chest vibrates when he chuckles under his breath.

"Oi."

A pillow lands on my face, and I jump.

"Rhys!"

Cassian starts laughing properly, his body shaking mine and head tipping back, and I grab the pillow to pull it from my face, craning my neck and glaring, even though I can't keep a pout from forming on my face. "What the fuck was that for?"

A feline smirk is gracing Rhys' face as he rests his hands onto the back of the couch. "Gently waking you from your slumber, princess."

Cassian's deep chuckle shakes my head, and I flip Rhys off.

"What do you want?" Huddling in again, I blink sleepily. "I'm comfy."

"Oh, I can see that." A dimple digs into Rhys' cheek when he smirks at me, and I grumble, closing my eyes and flipping him off again.

"We're doing quality control." Cassian's voice vibrates through me, deep and lazy, the light smirk on his lips audible.

"Of what, your own mattress?" Sarcasm drips from Rhys' voice.

Cassian shifts, the movement making my head roll to the side lightly when he shrugs. "Hey, we need to see if it's still comfy when it's on the floor."

"And?" Rhys raises an eyebrow drily.

"Come and find out." Cassian grins shit-eatingly, and Rhys huffs.

"You know you want to..." I sing sang, patting the mattress next to me without opening my eyes, feeling a wide smile slowly spreading over my lips.

For a second, I can feel Rhys stare. Then he exhales deeply and pushes off the couch. "Whatever. You won't move anyway."

"Nope." I can hear the light smirk in Cassian's voice and giggle.

A second later, the mattress dips; the smell of something dark and expensive washes over me, then Rhys drops his head onto my stomach and sighs. "You two are an awful influence."

"Shhhhh...", Cassian and I mumble in unison, Cassian's face splitting into a wide grin while I reach out to blindly pat Rhys' chest.

"You love us."

I can feel him huff, but there's the trace of a grin in his voice when he mumbles: "Yeah, yeah."

Beaming softly, I exhale and bury into the blankets.

Outside, rain slowly starts pattering against the sandstone of the balcony. I can feel Cassian's chest rising and falling steadily with his breaths, and Rhys' hair tickling my skin where my shirt has ridden up. Warmth radiates from both of them, and something swells gently in my chest.

I'm a few seconds away from truly dozing off when the floorboards creak and a deep voice brushes over my skin, low and smooth and lazy.

"Do I want to know?"

My heart swells against my ribs until it feels like they might crack open, and a beaming smile spreads over my face.

"Quality control," it echoes from three mouths in unison, a giggle bubbles in my throat, and my lids flutter open.

Both Rhys' and Cassian's eyes are still closed. Rhys is smirking, and Cassian is grinning, creases forming in his cheeks.

Another giggle shakes my body softly, and I crane my neck. My gaze finds the doorway, and my chest swells.

Azriel is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, one dark eyebrow arched slightly and a smirk tugging at his lips. The planes of his face look like carved from marble in the soft, warm light, his eyes filled with lazy amusement as they pierce mine, and my breath catches.

"Wanna join?" I send him a wide, cheeky smile.

The crease in Azriel's cheek deepens with his smirk, and he raises an eyebrow, his low voice vibrating through me lazily. "Didn't you want to finish your cake?"

Rhys exhales before pushing himself up with a soft groan. "God damn it, he's right." He pats my calf. "Alright, come on, princess; nap time's over."

I whine, and Cassian's chest shakes with his deep chuckles when he stretches out his hand. With a sigh, I grab it, and Cass pulls me up into a seated position.

"Thank you." I press a smacking kiss onto his cheek, then I laboriously push myself to my feet and climb over his legs. Rhys smirks and flicks my nose, and I huff and flip him off. Then I slip past him, and my eyes meet Azriel's, deep and amber and twinkling.

The doorbell rings, and I press the last blueberry into the cream I've spread over the homemade sponge, then I slide over the kitchen floor into the hall to buzz the downstairs door open.

Unlocking the front door to the flat and leaving it standing ajar, I pad back into the kitchen. Rain patters steadily against the window, and the candles on the table flicker. The air smells like petrichor, berries and chocolate when I lean down to pull the tray with little warm tartes from the oven.

I hear footsteps on the stairs out in the hallway when I start cutting the cake into big slices. A few seconds later, there's a happy groan, and when I look over my shoulder, Mor drops her umbrella onto the floor dramatically and closes her eyes as she breathes in deeply. Then she opens them again and grins widely.

"God, I love you two."

Rhys snorts, and Mor beams and throws her arms around me in a tight hug. She's wearing pyjamas as requested; a deep red satin set, her hair gathered in a messy bun at the top of her head that wiggles happily when she presses a smacking kiss onto my cheek before squeezing past me.

Behind her, Feyre closes the front door with her shoulder and sends me a wide smile. "Hey." She holds up two big paper bags. "Snacks, as requested. I brought you caramel popcorn."

"Mhmm..." Mor sniffs at the chocolate tartes cooling on the counter before beaming at the cake next to them. Then she blinks and raises her head, frowning. "We're still ordering pizza though, right?"

Rhys smirks. "Oh, yeah, I know this isn't feeding you nor Cass."

Mor grins and pats his cheek, raising her brows with a happy sigh. "You know us too well."

Feyre appears next to me, pulling me into a tight hug and beaming softly at me. She's also wearing comfy clothes; a hoodie I feel like I know from somewhere and a pair of soft wide pyjama pants.

I giggle and squeeze her back, then I raise my brows. "What else did you get?"

Feyre raises her brows and plops the bags onto the counter. "So, we bought two more kinds of popcorn, pretzels, crisps, chocolate -"

"Did somebody say chocolate?" Cass appears in the doorway and sniffs the air, brows crunching inquisitively. He has showered, his hair half dried and haphazardly pulled back, and changed into a wide t-shirt and loose joggers.

Mor bounds over to hug him happily, and Cass chuckles, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing.

"Alright, there are bowls over there, just put whatever you got in there." Rhys sends Feyre a feline smirk. "Darling -"

Feyre huffs, but her cheeks tinge pink even as she glowers at him, and Rhys' grin widens as his eyes pierce her face.

Clearing my throat softly, I pull one of the bags with shopping towards me and gently bump my elbow into Feyre's back. She hastily turns around, and I send her a cheeky grin. "Bowls please?"

The blush on her cheeks deepens, and she glares at me and pulls the bowls towards us.

Over her head, I catch Rhys' staring at her, a small crease forming in his cheek.

A giggle bubbles in my throat, and he blinks, tearing himself out of it and meeting my gaze.

Whipped, I mouth, widening my eyes and sending him a bright, mischievous smile.

Rhys huffs and clears his throat, turning. "Alright, Mor, can you get me the whipped cream out of the fridge?"

Giggling under my breath, I start dumping popcorn into a bowl.

Feyre helps me unpack the snacks, handing the bowls to Cass who takes them into the living room. Then she picks up the rest of the plates Mor has carefully placed big slices of cake on, and Rhys follows after her.

Pulling open the fridge, I stack cans with soda into my arm, then I reach for the jug with homemade lemonade and call over my shoulder: "Hey, can somebody -"

A chest brushes against my back, a hand catches the soda can nearly slipping out of my arm, and a low voice mumbles somewhere above my head: "Keep you from trying to carry everything and risking dropping something?"

My heart swells against my ribs, and I start beaming softly.

Without looking, I hold the jug up over my shoulder, and long, scarred fingers brush against mine as they accept it. I grab some more sodas before moving back, my back presses into a warm chest, and a tattooed arm appears above my head, closing the fridge.

Turning around, I grin mischievously, crunching my nose. "Keeps me from going twice."

There's a low huff, and my heart leaps gently against my ribs when my eyes meet Azriel's, piercing my face and twinkling lazily. There's a crease forming in his cheek, a light smirk tugging at his lips, and I smile up at him, squinting. "We need glasses."

Azriel places the saved can in my arms and waits until I have tucked it under my chin before pulling his hand away, his knuckles brushing a strand of hair out my face. "I got it."

My breath catches gently when his rough fingers tuck an escaped strand of hair behind my ear, and the crease in his cheek deepens. Then Azriel dips his head, and my heart gets stuck in my throat when his fingers lightly hook under my chin, tipping it up. His nose brushes against mine, my breath hitches, and Azriel's lips curve when he slowly presses them against mine.

A soft noise escapes my throat. My fingers tremble around the cans when Azriel's rough fingers brush against my throat, then they slide into my hair, and I stretch lightly and kiss back.

Azriel makes a rough sound deep in his chest, his body pressing closer, flush against my side, fingers threading through my hair and pulling gently. Then he lazily deepens the kiss. His tongue swipes against mine, and I cling to the cool cans in my arms, spine shuddering and something bursting low in my stomach.

Azriel exhales against my cheek, then he slowly pulls back, his thumb slowly brushing over the side of my neck. His breath grazes my lips, and my heart pounds against my ribs.

"Oi," Rhys' deep voice calls from the hall, and my heart missed a beat, swerving sharply. "Did you two get lost in the fridge or what's taking you so long?"

Azriel and I roll our eyes in unison, and he straightens, stepping to the side. His palm gently cups the side of my neck when he presses one last warm kiss against my temple, then it slides down my side, and feeling my heart thrum against my ribs, I squeeze past him.

The living room smells like candles and chocolate. The window to the balcony is still wide open, letting in cooler air and the scent of wet earth. Rain is splattering onto the balustrade, and the candles on the window sills flicker.

Mor helps me put the cans into the big bucket with ice while Feyre fills some glasses that Azriel brings in, his elbow brushing against my back gently. Then we curl up on the mattress, Mor on my left, Feyre huddled in on my right, burying into the pillows and blankets. The bowls with snacks are distributed evenly around us, and I snag the one with the caramel popcorn. Azriel stretches out on one of the couches, stuffing pillows into his back, and Cass flops into the armchairs behind us, draping his long legs over the arm rest.

Rhys is last, handing out the plates with cake and chocolate tartes that are drowning in whipped cream before stretching out on the second couch, grabbing the remote and smirking lazily.

"So, who picks first?"

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I snuggle into my blanket, feeling Mor's elbow nudge against mine when she lifts a piece of pizza out of the box balanced on her knees, eyes glued to the screen of the TV.

We're halfway through the second movie of the night. The pizza arrived a lil less than half an hour ago, and the greasy scent makes my stomach grumble happily when I help myself to another slice. Rhys is lazily reclined on his couch, sipping from his drink. Feyre stretches to grab a napkin, and Mor fights with a string of cheese.

Over her head, amber eyes meet mine, and something swells gently against my ribs when a lazy twinkle flashes through them.

Behind me, Cassian shifts. Then he groans and grumbles: "Jesus fucking Christ, can you girls scooch, my back is killing me."

Mor snorts a laugh, and I crane my neck to grin up at him. "You okay?"

Cassian huffs, brows crunched. "No, sitting like this makes me feel like I've aged like a couple hundred years. I don't think I've ever felt my ass like this before."

Feyre's shoulders shake with silent giggles, and grinning, I dig myself out my blanket. "Alright, come on, old man, you can take my place."

Cass whines when he lifts himself out of his seat, making a face when his back cracks, and giggling, I climb over Mor's legs, squeezing past two bowls with crisps. Then I raise my head, and my eyes meet Azriel's, twinkling lazily in the warm light.

The corner of his lips curves, and he shifts, dropping his knee to the side and raising a brow.

My heart swells against my ribs, and slowly starting to beam softly, I climb onto the cushions, dropping into the space between his legs. Azriel huffs dramatically, and I elbow him, feeling his grin against my temple when he slides his arms around my waist and pulls me into his body.

Warmth spreads through me, and I melt into his chest, leaning my head against his jaw. Azriel's hand slides under my shirt, and my breath catches when his rough skin brushes over mine, cupping my side. His breath grazes my temple, then he drops his head to bury his nose in my hair. His knees come up to box me in tightly, and his thumb slowly starts to sweep back and forth over my skin.

My heart leaps high, and something starts thrumming under my ribs until a ridiculously wide smile threatens to spill over my lips.

I wake up with a slightly achy neck, my body curled against something warm and solid and a familiar scent filling my lungs that makes my heart swell slowly and gently against my ribs.

Curling closer, I force open my tired eyes.

Beyond the window, the sky is glowing warmly, the sun just starting to peak over the horizon. Birds are chirping, and the breeze brushing through the window smells like summer.

I yawn, then I raise my head, blinking against the sleep in my eyes.

A soft giggle nearly bubbles from my throat.

Cass is spread out belly down over the middle of the mattress, his face smushed against a pillow. Somehow, while asleep, he has gotten rid off his t-shirt. Mor's foot is hanging off the edge of the mattress, her hair unravelled around her face, and Feyre lays with her back to them, curled into a ball under her blanket. Rhys has turned her way on the couch, his arm hanging off the cushions.

Feeling my chest swell and a wide smile slowly spreading over my face, I drop my head again and curl into Azriel's body.

For a while longer, I stay smushed between him and the back of the couch, feeling Azriel's chest rise against my body with his slow, even breaths and the way his scent fills my lungs. Then the need to pee gets too strong.

Slowly, I peel myself out of Azriel's grip. His hand twitches against my ribs, and something tips over in my chest when his dark brows crunch gently.

Leaning down, I softly press my lips onto his cheek and whisper: "Be right back."

Azriel's lips curve just barely. Then his grip slowly loosens, and I slide off the couch, wincing at the way my back cracks.

I climb over empty bowls and Mor's feet to get to the door. When my gaze flickers over my friends, my eyes get caught on Feyre. Her hand is stretched out towards where Rhys' arm is hanging off the couch.

His fingers are brushing her palm.

Something swells gently against my ribs, and feeling my lips curve into a soft, beaming smile, I turn around and quietly slip out into the hall.

When I get back a few minutes later, Azriel's spot on the couch is empty, and I hear quiet clanking from the kitchen. Rubbing my eyes, I pad through the hall, raising my head, and my breath catches gently.

Azriel looks over his shoulder. The first golden sun rays spill around him, breaking through the tousled dark strands of his hair and reflect in his eyes, making them glow like liquid caramel.

One corner of his lips curves, and he lightly raises an eyebrow.

"Morning." His low, deep voice vibrates through me, lazy and hoarse with sleep, and something swells against my ribs.

Slowly, I start to beam back gently, starting to trudge towards him and crunching my nose against the light. "Hi."

The crease in Azriel's cheek deepens, his head dipping as his eyes follow me, and I slide under his arm and lean into his side. "Coffee?"

Azriel's chest vibrates with a low, soft laugh; something catches in my throat, and when I raise my head, I just catch the way his eyes crinkle.

My heart swells until it feels like it might burst.

Quickly, I stretch, and Azriel's arm slides down my back when I press my lips onto his jaw. His hand curls around my ribcage, and when I slowly pull back, he turns his head until his nose brushes against mine.

My breath hitches, and the corner of Azriel's lips curves. Then he dips his head and kisses me, slow, lazy, until my fingers curl into his t-shirt and my heart thrums against my ribs.

We only break apart when there's no breath left between us, my body buzzing and my head spinning. Azriel's thumb brushes slowly over my ribs, his nose gently nudges mine. Then he gently pulls his head back just enough to raise a dark eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling lazily in the golden light. "Coffee?"

I blink up at him before mumbling: "Right, yeah."

Azriel grins, a slow, lazy thing that makes me breathless all over again like his scent filling my lungs, and I grumble softly, feeling my heart swell against my ribs.

Comfortable, warm silence settles over the kitchen as we start to move around each other in an easy rhythm. The sun slowly begins to rise over the roofs on the other side of the street, shining through the kitchen window, making Azriel's eyes glow like molten amber as he puts on a kettle and lets me pass him, his hand brushing against the small of my back, settling there for a moment. I pull the cups from the cupboard and the milk from the fridge and place them on the counter, my elbow brushing against Azriel when he fills coffee beans into the grinder. Then I pad over the cold kitchen tiles and slide my arms around his middle.

My heart swells at the feeling of his tall, solid body, and I slowly let myself sink into him, resting my cheek against his back and blinking sleepily.

I can feel Azriel turn his head to look over his shoulder. Then he turns back ahead, and his palm gently wraps around my forearm for a moment, his thumb slowly brushing back and forth. The warmth of his skin starts seeping through the soft fabric of his t-shirt, and I make a soft noise and curl into his back, feeling the muscles in his shoulders shift.

I stay like this until the coffee is done. Only then I slowly pull back, rubbing my eyes and accepting the gently steaming cup Azriel hands me, his rough fingers brushing some hair behind my ear before pressing against my back, softly guiding me towards the couch.

I climb onto the cushions, crunching my nose to suppress a yawn when I carefully place my cup onto the table.

The couch dips when Azriel slides in next to me, then his arm slides around my waist, and I make a soft noise when he pulls me into his body until my back is pressed into his chest. Curling into him, I reach out to grab my coffee, wrapping my fingers around it and blinking sleepily, and Azriel reaches for his own cup.

The golden rays of sunlight slowly wander over the kitchen floor as I sip my coffee, feeling Azriel's chest slowly rise and fall in my back, his arm sliding tighter around me and lips occasionally brushing against my temple. The quiet is sleepy and warm and comfortable, making my lids flutter gently.

The coffee is long empty and I've curled into Azriel's chest, my fingers slowly brushing back and forth over his forearm, feeling his thumb trace over my hip where his hand has slipped under my t-shirt when the others wake up.

Rhys is first to trudge into the kitchen. Azriel lifts his head from where his nose was buried in my hair, looking over his shoulder, and when I crane my neck gently, Rhys blinks into the morning light, brows scrunched and hair messy. Then he mumbles, deep voice raspy from sleep: "Coffee."

Azriel's lips quirk lazily, and I giggle softly into his t-shirt.

Feyre appears next, hair half fallen out of her braid and eyes tired. She flushes a little when her eyes find Rhys leaning against the counter, staring at the coffee machine like he's willing it to speed up.

Mor pads through the door a few minutes later just as Rhys hands Feyre a cup. There's a bit of smudged mascara under her eyes that she wipes away with her sleeve as she flops onto the nearest chair, blinking tiredly. Then she mumbles: "Hunger."

Rhys chuckles and places a steaming cup in front of her. "Pancakes?"

Mor slowly reaches for the coffee and takes a long slip. Then she nods slowly. "Pancakes."

Rhys smirks and pats her shoulder, then he turns around. Feyre climbs off her chair and joins him at the counter, and Mor gets up, slowly trudging past the table to plop down onto the other end of the couch, curling up against the arm rest and tangling her legs with mine, rubbing her eyes.

Slowly, the kitchen begins to wake. Mor sips her coffee, giggling under her breath when she bumps her ankle against my leg. Rhys and Feyre mix pancake batter and banter quietly, shoulders bumping as they move around each other like they have been doing so for years. Rhys' eyes start to twinkle every time he looks down at her, his smile growing until dimples dig into his cheeks, and even though Feyre huffs at him and shoots him glares, I can see her skin flush gently and the way she tries to hide a smile.

When Cass finally trudges through the door, bare chested and eyes sleepy, the sunlight paints streaks through the dusty air that smells sweet and greasy and Rhys is placing a plate with big stacks of pancakes on the table.

"Morning." Cassian's deep voice is so raspy, it sends a gentle shiver through me and makes him clear his throat and mumble: "Jesus."

Mor giggles and pushes herself up, and Feyre sets a plate with bacon next to the pancakes as Cassian flops down onto a chair, blinking tiredly.

Little by little, soft chatter starts filling the air. I stay curled into Azriel's chest, warmth pulsing through my chest as I watch Feyre and Rhys' bump elbows, Mor's concentrated frown as she meticulously assembles her second cup of coffee, and Cassian's sleepy nose wriggle when he starts piling pancakes onto his plate.

Rough fingers slide between mine, linking them together slowly and squeezing, and I squeeze back, reaching for my cup and hiding my slowly growing smile behind the rim.

@azrielshadows1nger @waytoomanyteenagefeels @icey--stars

@stayinglow-exploringworlds @secretlyhers @knmendiola

@luvmoo @azriels-mate2 @bookishbroadwaybish

@maybe-a-winchester @harrystylesfan2686 @ssmay123

@kalulakunundrum @brekkershadowsinger @acotar-lover

@xadenswhore @ailyr92

[lulufoxlainfawn]

𝓝𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪 𝓦𝓮𝓮𝓴 𝓓𝓪𝔂 7: 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓮 𝓓𝓪𝔂

Here I have a fun AU Nesta and Gwyn art of them as Taylor Swift and Florence Welch during their performance of Florida!!! On the last night of London. Nesta having the support from Gwyn when she was at her lowest is why their friendship is one of my favorites in the series.

Anyone watch the grainy live of this performance? that’s when the inspiration hit. @/evaroseart did an absolutely gorgeous rendition I am absolutely in love with it.

Art by evaroseart on instagram

Commissioned by me for @nestaarcheronweek

Characters belong to Sarah J. Maas

[themusingsofacurlyhairednerd]

Ludos Imperiales

Summary: A Princess!Reader x Gladiator!Bat Boys fic that's been swimming around in my head for weeks after watching Gladiator I and II

Content Warnings: Blood and Gore, Mentions of Torture, Slavery, and Assault

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“So good of you to finally join us, cousin.” The din of the crowd nearly drowns out the words, the feverish cheers echoing off the massive stone pillars that hold the auditorium seats up and away from the stench of death and decay that permeates from the mud soaked pit beneath the plush outdoor auditorium. There are rows of decadent booths along the pit's edge, each box set with plush chases and golden edged pillows. Slaves with palm fronds fan ornately dressed royals, their faces obscured by gold lined veils. The auditorium oozes wealth and luxury, offers decadent food and drink and deep enough betting pools to make the strictest penny pinchers among the elite crawl out of their caves to try their luck.

The altar for the Mother gleams golden in the afternoon sunlight, the carved statue standing with arms and feathered wings outstretched in welcome. Beckoning those to come and offer a bit of blood in hopes of trading it for some luck. Luck for the gamblers, of course, never the males, and sometimes females, who fight and die in the muddy pit far beneath the first row of booths. My father says they made the Games to punish our enemies, and to reward our soldiers, but both fight and die as equals all the same. 

I frown first at the statue, how could our most beloved Goddess reward this kind of brutality? Then at my cousin, who I remember, is still waiting for me to speak. Dagdan sports his military regalia, the glittering medals across his chest all pinned there by my father for his service to our great empire. Service he never actually participated in. Dagdan can wield a sword because of the patience of his tutors, he’s never raised it in battle, despite the stories he tells at every possible turn. 

“Father said the Games would be impressive this year,” I reply, trying to keep the bite out of my tone. Mother raised me to be demure, to keep my chin up, to never let an enemy see what I was feeling. She had been good at that, too good, perhaps that was why she had been publicly executed. For all her poise, she had not been able to outmatch my Father’s paranoia.

Beside him, Dagdan’s twin sister Brannagh grins, her pearly white teeth a harsh contrast to her otherwise impassive face. It’s like watching a shark try to grin. “The Uprising in the Courts made for a lot of candidates this year.”

My stomach turns. The Empire is vast, spreading across continents and oceans. The Courts in Prythian were the last of the fae to fall in line before Father turned his attention to the Human Lands. Each year, more and more slaves and captives are carted in through the iron gates far beneath the smooth stones we stand on, all tossed into the mud to fight each other for a slim possibility of survival. Some come willingly, chasing fortune and gold; some are sponsors of Father’s Inner Circle, their armor always pristine, their weapons always sharp. But most of the gladiators are slaves, crammed into dingy cells in the catacombs beneath the arena. Despite the decadence of the auditorium, one visit down into the bowels of this awful place was enough to scar me for life. As Father intended, I’m sure. Our esteemed Emperor had not been shy about his disdain for not being able to produce a son and his paranoia often convinced him that I would one day find a husband crafty enough to steal his Throne before he found a match he thought suitable, he often dragged me to these things to remind me the brutality he was capable of if I stepped out of line. No doubt it was why he’d insisted I come out today. I had not been out in public in some time, not after the grief of losing my mother had so thoroughly consumed me. My grief had shamed him; had made some in his Inner Circle suspect I was also plotting against him. My presence here was as much a check into my loyalties as it was to remind me of what fate could befall me if I kept on wallowing away in the dark.

I smooth my hands over my skirts, putting thoughts of my Mother aside. It always feels like a gaping wound in my chest, nerve and sinew exposed and open for every onlooker to see. I must reign it in. For the sake of my future. 

“We’ll see a lot of Fae, then?” There were a lot of elves last year and shifters the year before that. There is no prejudice in the games. Race and gender matter little in a battle of survival. 

The twins follow me as I find my way through the bustling crowd to our booth, where I know Father will already be waiting. 

“Some humans for the first round,” Dagdan spits like he’s tasted something vile. 

“Some half-breeds and mutts for the second,” Brannagh finishes with far more delight than her brother. Their eagerness from blood is one of the few reasons Father didn’t name their heir in my place. Brutality is necessary, but bloodlust turns a well rounded Empire on its head. Father placates them by giving them titles, parading them around like their important so they remain loyal, but he will never truly give them the power they seek. They’re simply not smart enough to see it.

“But the final round will be entertaining,” Dagdan says, gray eyes twinkling as the wall of guards at attention in Father’s booth part for us. 

Our esteemed emperor sits on a throne made entirely of gold, a goblet of wine already in his hands. A circlet of gold leaf perches on top of his salt and pepper hair, the sharp edges reflecting the light along the crimson curtains that help keep out the summer heat. We all bow to him as we enter, and Father reaches out a hand for mine without ever looking at us. 

“It is good to see you outside again, daughter,” he says, chapped lips brushing over my knuckles in a brief display of affection. 

“I’m sorry it has been so long, Father,” I keep my voice even, unbothered. I will not let any of them see how much I hate all of this. 

He guides me to sit on the couch beside the throne, where I have ample view of the uneven floor below. Yesterday’s rain has filled the giant pit with mud. Mud that could have easily been covered and smoothed out to make the playing field fair for all, but that is not how these Games work. Bones still litter the uneven ground, a rib cage protruding from a mound of dirt, a crumbling arrow still caught inside it. There’s the skull of an animal turned upside down, a stream of muddy water running out the eye sockets like some sort of twisted water fountain. Old weapons lay scattered around the arena floor; a wagon weaves around boulders and mounds of loose earth to scatter more. 

“I trust you’re feeling better?” The question is pointed, for the sake of my cousins. He has been telling people the shock of my Mother’s supposed betrayal had been too much on my health and I’d been bed ridden. It’s not entirely far from the truth. 

“Yes, Father. The sunlight does me good.” Not far from the truth either. It is nice to be away from the palace and all the chaos that comes with it. 

Brannagh sits beside me, a slave scurrying behind her with a fan, a second not far behind with some wine. She stretches her long legs out in front of her with a sigh, the sunlight drifting through the curtains making her pale skin look translucent. “Do you have a favorite to win today, Uncle?”

My Father sips from his goblet, a bit of wine caught in his graying beard. “Just a favorite to lose,” he chuckles. Though he is getting older, the gleam in his slate gray eyes is still sharp and youthful. Even with his bouts of paranoia, his mind is still sharp and calculating. 

“Do tell, before it’s too late for me to change my bets,” Dagdan quips. Though I doubt it is all in jest, my cousin is far more in debt than he realizes. 

Horns blare from the upper rings of the arena, signalling those still milling about placing bets and finding food to get to their seats. The Games will start soon. My stomach twists itself into a new knot. There is no shortage of ways my Father will have found to torment the poor souls who find themselves in the pit today, I am not eager to see what they are. 

“There was some… trouble in the mountain regions of the Courts,” he says carefully. 

I force myself not to turn and look at him. Trouble for my father usually means rebellion, or outright war, anything else is too insignificant to mention. In my seclusion, I had not even caught wind of it. 

“We have a few insurrectionists I’d like to see fall today.”

Few are foolish enough to raise a hand against the Empire. It usually means their provinces go without food and aid in the harsher months of the year. I am curious to see who would be foolish enough to risk the lives of their people. 

“Those great wings of theirs would make an excellent trophy on my wall,” Father finishes. 

A shiver runs down my spine. It would not be the first gruesome trophy of his, but still, the outright admittance to such cruelty still makes me tremble. My unease is only heightened by the arrival of my Father’s General, who enters the booth followed by a handful of male slaves, all barely dressed.

“Amarantha!” It is no secret that my Father has always wished I shared the temperament and constitution of his beloved General. If he had to be cursed with a female for an heir, he wanted ruthlessness, cunning, and a smile that could peel paint. All things the red headed fae oozed in abundance. 

All things my Father was convinced I lacked. I’d take it. His disdain was better than being exactly like her. I can’t help the way my nose crinkles at the sight of her. Brannagh moves closer to the edge of the couch, in hopes of ending up in her line of vision, eager to swap stories before the Games officially start. Brannagh wants to be just like her, the gaggle of pleasure slaves included. The two of them would unleash hell on the world if my Father ever put the two of them together. 

“Your Highness,” Amarantha bows, the loose fabric of her nearly sheer gown spilling to give my Father ample view of her cleavage. I stopped allowing myself to question the nature of their relationship long ago; my stomach turns thinking about it. 

“It is a good day for betting, don’t you think?” She asks. Her voice is like gravel, fitting since its the color of her eyes. A finger bone dangles from her neck, an eye encased in glass sitting atop her finger; though she is lean, she is stronger and more deadly than most people assume at first glance. Everything about her is dangerously sharp. 

“I was just telling Dagdan the same thing,” my Father says.

Those dark eyes flick briefly to my cousin, who puffs up his chest, but she ignores him entirely as her gaze settles on me. “Princess! I didn’t know you’d be joining us today. What a monumental occasion!”

“I thought the fresh air would do me some good,” I say simply. What else is there to say to Evil Incarnate? Perhaps I should put more energy into being clever, I know that if Amarantha saw a benefit to cleaving my head from my shoulders, she’d take it--power is all she cares about, so far we haven’t faced each other because she doesn’t think I have enough to steal--but I cannot summon the energy. Ever since the incident with my Mother, I have not managed to find much in me at all. Especially not for Amarantha and her social climbing. 

“Nothing like a little blood sport to invigorate the mind,” she purrs as she lowers herself into the seat at my Father’s right hand. One of her slaves perches on the arm of her chair, bare chest glinting with oils in the harsh sunlight. Another sits at her feet, and her nails, sharpened to points, drift harshly through his thick curls. 

I watch my cousin run her tongue over her lips at the sight. 

“Did you place any bets, Princess?” Amarantha continues as someone brings her a goblet of wine. She sniffs suspiciously at it before instructing one of her slaves to test it first. Perhaps poison would be a mercy. 

Never admit weakness. Never admit that my solitude has kept me out of the loop and left me ill prepared for whatever is about to happen in the Pit beneath us. Instead, I say, “We have several days of entertainment, I prefer to observe on the first day.”

To his credit, my Father does reach over and pat my shoulder in approval. 

“Clever,” she says, but there’s enough bite in it to not make it a compliment. 

“My money is on your Attor, as always, General,” Brannagh says with the eagerness of a child with a crush. 

Amarantha huffs in annoyance, as if my cousin is a fly buzzing around her ear, “He’s too good, its almost boring at this point.”

Brannagh deflates, but before she can come up with something witty in response, the final warning horn blows from the rafters. The Games will begin. 

I turn my attention away from my company, watching brightly dressed royals rush to their booths. There are all sorts of creatures here to watch: Elves and Fae and Fawn, a few Goblins and Giants, observing from a standing platform opposite us. There is room for most, save for humans, within the Empire, as long as they prove their usefulness. That is my Father’s crowning achievement, the Hybern Empire has room for all, if you play your cards right and never step out of line. 

The groaning of the gates draws my attention away from the spectators and down into the Pit beneath us, where a whole cart of humans appears from the gloom of one of the entrances. They look small; mud and blood splattered as several Praetorian guards usher them out of the cart with spears bigger than most of their heads. The guards do not remove their shackles, leaving all twelve of them tethered together in the center of the Pit.

The cart rolls away, the guards with it, only once their out does another gate open to let out the challenger: Amarantha’s hulking Attor. The creature is battle scarred, lines criss-crossing over its leathery skin. Its giant wings flutter on the breeze behind it as it stalks into the center, Amarantha’s crest painted in blood red over its chest. 

The crowd goes wild as it enters the pit, clawed hands swinging wildly around its hulking body. “ATTOR! ATTOR! ATTOR!” The monster has always been the crowd favorite.

Amarantha yawns. She’ll make thousands off the creature, but that is nothing to her. Money is trivial, unless it can buy her the power she craves. 

I glance at my Father as the Games Maker starts addressing the crowd and explaining the match up. “Would it not be more entertaining to unchain them?” They’re all going to die anyway, surely this gives them a fighting chance to die with some honor. “We all know the Attor will win, why make it easy for it?”

Amarantha nearly spits out her wine, a gurgling sound coming out of her as she tries to maintain her composure. 

I do not let myself grin at the victory.

Father runs a hand over his graying beard in thought. “Perhaps your solitude did you some good, Daughter.”

I do not shutter. I cannot save any of them, as pitiful and helpless as they look alongside the Attor. It will give them all gruesome deaths purely for the fun of it. But perhaps the Mother will take pity; may the chance to die fighting grant them peace in the afterlife. 

Father stands and motions for the Game Maker to quiet. “Let the humans be unchained!”

The crowd erupts into varying shouts of surprise and approval. 

“Let us test the skill of the Attor!”

This pleases the crowd, but it makes Amarantha’s cheeks flush crimson. She hides a grimace behind her wine as my Father returns to his seat. 

A single guard returns with keys, and the crowd falls into a hushed silence, waiting for chaos to ensue. I force myself not to look away; to face what I have done. One of the humans cranes its head to look up at our box and flashes us his middle finger.

Dagdan bristles in his seat next to his sister. “He should pay for that!”

They will. There will be no rescue. There is none to be found. The Empire comes for all of us eventually, best that we can do is go into it with our heads up. I am trying to accept my fate in this, what other choice do I have, lest I end up dead or locked away. 

Once the guard is clear, the horns once again blow, telling the Attor he can start his hunt. Those great wings at his back kick up loose dirt as he launches into the air with a roar that makes the arena tremble. 

The crowd cheers, leaning forward in their seats to watch as the monster swoops down and gets its great jaws around the head of the first human. Brannagh giggles at the splatter of blood that erupts from the poor creature’s neck. 

I clench my hands in my lap. 

The second human tries to run, scrambling for purchase in the thick mud. It doesn’t help that they’re all barefoot. The Attor’s claws tear through the human’s back like butter, the poor thing going down with a wail that makes my heart lurch painfully in my chest.

The third manages to find a sword, the blade rusted from the rain; the man gets a good swipe in, nicking the inside of the Attor’s palm before it gets shredded to pieces.

Each human tries a little harder than the last, getting further each time. One manages to weave around the debris and avoid being swooped down on like the first, but the uneven terrain catches her ankle, sending her sprawling down with a shout as her leg is left twisted and broken. Another manages to get an arrow into the Attor’s back, but not deep enough to do damage. They all go down fighting, and each new one has me saying a mental prayer to the Mother on their behalf, but none survive. Much to the crowd’s glee.

“Wonderful!” Brannagh says, clapping as the Attor roars in victory. 

Amarantha shrugs. “Boring.”

The Attor exits the Pit, ever the victor. The bodies it left aren’t even carted away. No one comes to pick up the pieces. No one will bury them. Their bones will rot and decay into the Pit floor.

I ask one of my Father’s servants for some wine to try and settle the nausea that rolls in my stomach, but even the smoothest of wine does not dull it. 

My Father watches me carefully, calculating every move. I do my best to keep my features neutral. 

“What did you think, Daughter?”

I take another sip of wine before speaking, giving myself time to collect my thoughts. “Humans don’t make very good gladiators.”

He laughs at that and my cousins join in, as if it was the funniest thing ever. 

“Humans don’t make good anything,” Dagdan says.

“Except for a snack,” Brannagh adds.

“Worms,” Amarantha spits.

Father raises his cup in salute to me. “May the next match be more exciting for you.”

I ignore my revulsion and return the gesture. I cannot wait for this to be over. I shall retire back into my gloomy quarters with the curtains drawn and try to scrub the gory images from my brain. Perhaps my solitude would be more comforting than this.

The horns blow announcing the next match and the Games Maker drones on and on about where these next gladiators hail from. One side are all sponsored by royal families, all males trying to make a name for themselves and some coin to feed their families. They’re all well trained and well equipped for the task. They’re a filler spot, to give the rest of the Game Makers time to prepare the next victims of the Empire’s wrath. Beneath the Pit floor, in the dark of the catacombs, the next round of war captives are likely being hauled out of their cells and prepped. I can’t help but wonder if they can hear the roaring of the Bogges and Gladiator’s alike from down there. Do they understand what is about to happen? Are they saying their final prayers to the Mother?

I can’t help but glance at Her altar. What kind of world is this that we live in? Brutal and cruel and blood splattered. If we are so favored, how could our lives look like this? It is thoughts like these that have kept me sequestered in my room. I do not know what I am supposed to live for, or who I am supposed to be any more. My life feels like it is stretching out before me, and someone else is pulling on the strings, making me a puppet that moves at their will. I no longer have the protection of my Mother. Father will soon throw me to the wolves if I am not smart or careful or cunning. The world is different and dark and I have utterly lost my way.

I am so wrapped up in my thoughts I barely register the fight. One of the males gets eaten by the terrifying Bogge, his screams echoing off the great walls. The crowd eats it up, cheering and screaming and jumping from their seats. The more blood that flows the louder they yell and cheer. These are my people? These are who I am to rule one day? What does that make me?

Dagdan huffs about his losses as the gladiators exit the arena, the Bogge all dead. He drowns his sorrows in his cup as if the solution to his terrible gambling habit might lie in the bottom. 

“Finally, now we can get to the part I’ve been waiting for!” Amarantha declares. 

Father grins. “I take it they gave you trouble on the way here?”

She spits again, a nasty habit that doesn’t bother anybody but me, apparently. “Damned Illyrians! Had to use faebane on them the whole way, otherwise they tore through the damn chains!”

Father shakes his head. “I have to admit they surprised me-” certainly a feat few have ever accomplished in his lifetime “-usually their kind throw themselves on their swords before they get caught. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

I’ll chalk that up to his paranoia talking, but I have to admit, I am intrigued by the conversation. Anyone who can surprise my Father must be very skilled. Despite my disdain for these Games, I find myself leaning forward to get a better look into the arena when I hear the grates open for the third time. 

“What is there to be surprised about?” Amarantha counters, but her words feel farther away as I catch sight of movement from the dark tunnel behind the entrance of the arena. “They’re rebels, their deaths will make martyrs out of them. They want a public execution.”

The world feels as if it has narrowed into this moment. The din of the crowd starts to fade in and out of focus. I am suddenly very aware of the roaring of my heartbeat in my own ears.

The first male steps out of the tunnel, stripped to the waist, his bronze chest smattered with cuts and scrapes and bruises so dark they’re nearly black. Dark twisting tattoos trace their way up his broad chest and over his shoulders and back, until they meet great, leathery wings like that of a bat’s. Long, dark hair, matted with mud and what might be blood, clings to his face, but despite the disheveled state, his hazel eyes remain clear and bright. 

The crowd boos when they see him. A few people hurl food at him. 

“Cassian,” Amarantha scoffs. “The rebels call him their General.”

Father frowns. “As foolish as their militia was, do not forget how many of our soldiers he killed.” 

I cannot take my eyes off him. He’s taller than the guard that leads him by his bound wrists into the Pit. Larger too. Those broad shoulders and defined abs speak volumes about how skilled in swordplay he must be.

“Will you keep his wings when he dies, Uncle?” Brannagh asks.

The wine threatens to come up at the thought of having to see such beautiful wings pinned to a wall in Father’s study. The male clearly cares for them. When the guard gets too close he flicks them out of reach. While there are some nicks in the leathery membrane, the wings are the least scarred part of him. He has to take good care of them for someone so battle hardened to keep them looking like that.

“Happily,” Father says.

Even if I wanted to look at him, I couldn’t, not as the second male enters the arena. He’s a little shorter than the first, his hair shorter, the dark onyx locks curling gently around his forehead. Blood still drips from an open gash across his temple, staining his cheek and neck crimson. Like the first, his chest is bare and marked with the same swirling tattoos, but unlike the first, his great wings hang limp behind him. One drags along the mud like a cape, the leathery membrane ripped open and bleeding, the other is twisted at an angle sharp enough to make me wince at the sight. The urge to run down to him is overwhelming. My hands drift down to the seat cushion and hold tight to keep myself still.

The crowd continues to boo and throw things as he tries to keep his head up and meet the other male in the center of the Pit. 

“Azriel,” Father says to Amarantha, “ was quite a challenge for you, I hear?”

His beloved General frowns. “The shadow wielder managed to get a few good blows in, I’ll admit. But surprise only gets you so far.”

My eyes drift from his broken wings to his hands, covered entirely in scars, like someone burned him. The thought makes my chest heavy. 

I don’t know what’s happening to me. I have never been so obviously shaken by the Games, not since the first time I’d come. Father had made me sit through weeks of slaughter, watching as gladiator after gladiator fell prey to a magic storm and a slew of magic beasts. Even then I had managed to hold it together until I’d made it home to vomit, but now I feel as if I cannot keep my body in its seat!

The magic that lives caged beneath my, usually, pristine facade cracks through, a bit of dark mist seeping out from between my fingers. I unfurl my fists and take my hands carefully into my lap, using a bit of my skirts to hide the errant flow of power. I’ve been neglecting my studies, have not given myself an outlet, this is a terrible time for a flare up! I try to focus on my breathing, the pounding of my heart isn’t helping. I need to remain calm. I need to remain in control. 

A feat that feels utterly impossible as the third and final male exits the tunnel. Time comes to a grinding halt, every footfall against the Pit floor a drumming, haunting echo in my ears. I have utterly forgotten how to breathe; how to think. The male is by far the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, violet eyes twinkling with a thousand glittering stars. He sports the same tattoos as the others, the same bronze skin and battle hardened muscle, but it is the expression on his face that gets me. He is as battered and bloody as the second male, cheek split open, a slash mark clean down the middle of his chest; most of his body is a bruise, but he doesn’t wince at all. He keeps his chin high, high enough to look Father right in the eyes with every step he takes into the Pit. There’s a clear challenge there, unhindered by the chains around his neck and wrists. Those gorsian stone chains don’t often make an appearance, unless the person attached to them is exceptionally skilled with magic. 

“Rhysand,” this time Amarantha’s voice is an excited purr and the power trying to escape through my fingers slips faster from my palms. I dig my nails so tight into my palms they bleed. 

“I do admit, it’s a shame you have to kill him,” she continues. “He’d make such a pretty addition to my collection.” 

It is all I can do to not turn and hurl a blast of dark, obsidian power at her. I keep my gaze on the Pit instead, as the final rebel joins the others in the center. Its only once he’s there that something clicks into place in my mind. If Amarantha still speaks I can’t hear her. Time freezes again, the only signal of its passing the pounding of my heart in my ears.

They’re my mates!

And I’m about to watch them die. 

[winged-freaksometimes]

Day 2: Dark Spring

with some themes of spring folklore if you squint

The Prince of Foxes and Flame visits the King of Beasts and Spring to express his concern

Day 2 for @tamlinweek 2025

Close ups

Version without 1000 effects

Also in collaboration with @thornsinwinter Day 2 fic part!

[amaniansari]

If Only You'd Said Something

Part I Part II Part III

The war was over. The blood had dried. But nothing inside you had healed.

Velaris buzzed with rebirth. Laughter returned to the streets. Shops reopened. Music drifted out of taverns. Yet all of it felt like static against the roar in your head—the one that screamed his name every time you saw him and reminded you, cruelly, that he had never been yours.

Azriel stood across the room at the River House, stiff and unreadable in a tailored black tunic. Shadows clung to him like second skin, whispering things only he heard. His siphons glinted with residual power. His wings were folded neatly behind him, but you knew how sharp they could be. How gentle.

You should have left before he arrived. You knew better.

You took a long sip of wine, anything to distract from the slow crack in your chest widening with every second he didn’t look at you.

He hadn’t looked at you in weeks.

You used to be the only one he let close. The only one who knew how his hands trembled at night. How he woke up gasping from dreams that bled into reality. You’d held him in silence, fingers drawing lazy circles on his back, never asking for more than he could give.

And still, somehow, it hadn’t been enough.

He cleared his throat across the room. Cassian said something. Azriel gave a half-smile. That rare, crooked thing you used to see only when he was truly relaxed—when he was with you.

Your grip tightened on the wine glass. You set it down before it could shatter.

“Go talk to him,” Mor said gently at your side, her tone soft and almost pitying.

You shook your head. “No point.”

She hesitated. “He asks about you, you know.”

“Then he should talk to me himself.”

“He’s… Azriel,” she offered, as if that was excuse enough.

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

The silence between you and Azriel had never been cruel. Just… cowardly. A slow retreat instead of a clean cut. A refusal to say goodbye, so the wound stayed open.

You turned to leave, coat in hand, but a voice behind you stopped everything.

“Wait.”

You froze. Slowly turned. Azriel stood there, closer than you expected, eyes darker than night. His shadows curled restlessly around his boots, agitated. Nervous.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “And yet here I am.”

His jaw clenched. “Can we talk?”

You stared at him. Really looked. He looked… tired. Not physically. Soul-deep tired. The kind you knew well.

“What’s there to say?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked at you with that unreadable expression that used to drive you mad. You could feel his shields up—fortified. Like you were a threat now.

Finally, he murmured, “I should’ve said something sooner. I just… I didn’t know how.”

You laughed. It came out bitter. “You didn’t know how to tell me you didn’t want me?”

“That’s not what I—” He stopped himself. Raked a hand through his hair. “I thought keeping my distance would make it easier. For both of us.”

You stepped back like he’d struck you. “Did it?”

He hesitated. “No.”

You wanted to scream. Cry. Hit him. You did none of it.

Instead, you said, “You don’t get to come back now, Azriel. You disappeared. I waited. I gave you time. I gave you everything. And you gave me silence.”

He flinched.

“I was scared,” he admitted. “Of what I felt. Of hurting you. Of being something I couldn’t control around you.”

“You already hurt me,” you said, voice breaking.

He stepped forward, close enough that you could see the crack behind his eyes. “I know. I know. I fucked this up. I thought I was protecting you. From me.”

“You don’t get to make that choice for me,” you said, fists shaking. “You were the only thing that felt real in a world full of ghosts. And you let me go like it was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

“Then why did you let me believe I meant nothing?”

He looked wrecked. Truly wrecked.

“Because if I didn’t,” he whispered, “I was afraid I’d never let you go. And I thought I had to. I thought you deserved better. Someone whole.”

You stared at him, tears pricking your eyes. “All I wanted was you. The broken parts, the haunted past, all of it. I would’ve taken it all if it meant I could keep even a piece of you.”

He looked like he might fall apart. “I know that now. I just—gods, I was so stupid.”

You let the silence stretch, heavy and aching.

“Do you still…” He trailed off. Couldn’t say the words.

You swallowed hard. “Do you?”

He nodded. “Every fucking day.”

The air between you shifted. Warped. Years of tension and quiet devotion surged forward, raw and violent and full of things left unsaid.

You could kiss him. Right here. Right now. You could fall into his arms like you used to. Pretend the silence hadn’t happened. Pretend he hadn’t left.

But you didn’t.

“I don’t know if I can trust you not to run again,” you said softly.

“I won’t,” he said. “Not again. But I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

You turned away before he could see the tears fall. “Then you’d better be patient, Shadowsinger.”

And with that, you walked out into the cold Velaris night, not sure if the ache in your chest was the beginning of healing—or the last breath of what once was.

[velarisdusk]

Chapter 8 — Margins

series masterlist <- Chapter 7 ✦ Chapter 9 -> Coming Soon!! word count: 452 author's note: whiskey in the office..... yummy >:D

Rhysand closed the file on his final client of the day and sat back in the quiet hum of his office.

The clock on the wall read 7:42 p.m., but he didn’t move. The end-of-day silence had always felt heavier somehow—more honest. It was when the things left unsaid floated to the top.

He exhaled slowly, then opened his notebook again.

She wasn’t his most complicated client. Not even close. He’d worked with worse trauma, more volatile moods, spirals that bled into danger.

But she was different.

Not interesting—he hated that word. People weren’t puzzles. But there was something in the way she sat, in the way she scanned the room like she was waiting for it to turn on her. She didn’t try to charm her way through discomfort. She just—endured it. Like holding a burning match and daring herself not to flinch.

But he noticed the flinches anyway.

The way her eyes lingered on the lamp before she sat. The way she tracked every movement he made between questions. The way she sometimes stopped blinking when a topic scraped too close to something raw.

She was always trying not to let anything show, but the margins told on her.

It was there, in the tension of her shoulders. In the habit of making jokes too quickly. In the pauses—especially the pauses.

There had been a moment last week, after that thing he said about not reaching out when things were good. When she’d realized that she’d just given herself away.

And then she’d gone quiet. Not retreating—just… processing. Sitting with it.

Most clients got defensive. She didn’t. She just got sad.

He’d wanted, then, more than he should have, to say something soft. Something human. Something that told her she didn’t have to earn comfort. That just being here was enough.

But the license on his wall said otherwise.

He pushed back from his desk and rose slowly, the weight of the day pressing down. The silence of his office stretched as he walked to the sideboard, where a small glass bottle hidden towards the back caught the dim light. He poured himself a modest measure of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling quietly. Holding the glass in one hand, he exhaled—letting the familiar burn settle a little of the tension in his chest.

The rules said he had to stay detached. So instead, he’d just written up a worksheet. Nothing dramatic. Something low-effort, low-risk. A few small prompts. A list of check-ins.

He opened it now, double-clicked the file.

Still blank at the bottom. He considered it doing it.

No.

Therapists weren’t supposed to feel like this.

But maybe this wasn’t feeling.

Maybe it was just care.

Maybe.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

<- Chapter 7 ✦ Chapter 9 -> Coming Soon!!

[janearts]

Followed for dragon age stayed for acotar ‼️

FFS this ask got me to download and play Inquisition again for like two days straight this past weekend. Anyway, put my attempts at DAI's godawful character creator + some barely-worked-out thoughts on a DA Nessian AU under the cut.

Nesta - Human Mage - Due to my own anti-Orlesian prejudice—(i.e., I cannot imagine Nesta with the French accents they have in DAI)—and the fact I don't think she'd be Ferelden (notable lack of doggos in ACOTAR save for Eris' shadow hounds), I'm thinking of her as a fallen noblewoman from the Free Marches who was only further disgraced when Feyre was found to possess magic. The situation was made worse when it was consequently discovered that, actually, all 3 sisters were mages. Her + her sisters were then scattered to different Circles. Left both the aristocracy and the Circle with no discernable survival or wilderness skills; could be very powerful but has no interest/fears that power. I don't see her as the Inquisitor/Herald of Andraste in this AU, but that might be fun to explore because I feel like Nesta would haaaate that.

Cassian - Human Warrior (currently: sword & shield) - I wanted to stay true to the outside, simplistic perception that the Illyrians are a barbaric warrior people. I didn't make him a Qunari because they're a matriarchal religious society and that doesn't seem akin to the Illyrian culture as shown in the books. I tossed about the idea of having him be Tevinter, but I thought that would suit Rhysand better. I landed on the Avvar because they're a conglomerate of tribes (like Illyria seems to be a conglomerate of war camps/bands), still possess magic/are friendly towards mages, and have occasionally come into conflict with Tevinter (like the Illyrians have occasionally fought against the Night Court/High Lords). I stopped thinking precisely there. He's still bros with Rhysand for reasons I have not yet discerned and tbqh don't really care about. I am here only for #Nessian.

The Premise: Let's say pre-DAI/the Divine getting exploded, Rhysand had whisked Feyre off to Tevinter to be powerful, wealthy, and pregnant as in canon. Let's say Feyre wanted her sisters (who she knows to have magic like her even though they may not want to have magic) to be safe with her in mage-friendly Tevinter. Rhysand could task Cassian with finding one sister and Azriel with the other.* Nesta could be recruited with the mages in Redcliffe; Cassian could be found in the Hinterlands (headed towards Redcliffe). Give Cassian Nesta's location and that's one quest done, they're united unbeknownst to Nesta in Haven, and now she's got one (1) Avvar bodyguard she never signed up for who's insisting he's taking her back to Tevinter once This Whole Thing Blows Over (despite her continuous refusal), absolutely 0 sign of coin or status or eligible suitors, and magic powers she's been raised to abhor. (✿◡‿◡)

* (AN: I feel I should say that I'm not mentioning that for shipping purposes - I could NOT give any fewer fucks about who Azriel fucks because, again, I am only here for Nessian. I would be in a negative fuck zone and I'm not sure if that's mathematically or psychologically possible.)

Anyway, bonus:

[surielstea]

A Lesson in Lust

Inspired by a request!

Pairing: Azriel x Fem!Reader

Summary: When Reader fakes an orgasm Azriel has no choice but to teach her not to lie to him, but not with words.

Warnings: smut | 18+ | pwp | dom!Az / Brat!Reader | Brat tamer/taming | cunnilingus | slight impact | slight breathplay | creampie | p in v | overstim | controlled orgasm | clit sucking | slut shaming | slight dollification | there’s so many ts freaky

Word count: 6.5k

A.Note: Please read the warnings!!! This is nasty, literally all smut, mdni.

I should have known better.

Should have known that Azriel, with all his centuries of honed observation and razor-sharp instincts—his ability to read people down to the slightest flicker of emotion—would notice.

I thought I had hidden it well, that he had been too lost in his own pleasure to realize I hadn't unraveled beneath him the way I usually did. That the tremor in my voice, the sharp edge of my cries, hadn't quite matched the ones before. I told myself he wouldn't catch the fleeting moment where my body had tensed but never truly shattered, where my release had been nothing more than an illusion painted for his sake.

I don't even know why I did it. Azriel had always been so attuned to me, so devoted to my pleasure. Maybe it was the exhaustion weighing down my limbs, the ache of an endlessly long day pressing against my bones. Maybe it was the way he had looked at me tonight—so desperate to bring me over the edge with him. I hadn't wanted to bruise his pride.

But he knows.

He doesn't say anything. Not as he cleans me up with steady, reverent hands, the warm cloth dragging over my skin with the same care he always gives me. Not as he helps me into my nightgown, his touch lingering a little longer than necessary. But I feel it. Feel it in the way his hazel eyes darken, their golden flecks burning as they study me in that quiet, unreadable way.

Still, he says nothing. Not when he turns off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a cocoon of darkness. Not when I turn to him, pressing a soft kiss against his lips in an attempt to quell the unspoken weight between us.

He kisses me back, slow and deep, but his shadows betray him. They curl tighter around his frame, restless like they are whispering secrets meant only for him—secrets I cannot decipher.

He doesn't say anything for a long while. Holds onto the knowledge, lets it simmer beneath his quiet exterior, tucked away where I almost believe it will stay.

For a moment, I think I've gotten away with it.

But when morning comes, the silence finally fractures.

"Why did you fake it?"

The question lands like a stone in my chest, sending my heart into a frantic rhythm. His voice is steady—too steady. Like he's been awake all night just waiting to ask.

I blink at him tiredly, feigning confusion. "What?"

Azriel doesn't waver. "You didn't come. Why'd you fake it?"

Blunt. Direct. The weight of his stare alone is enough to pin me in place. He's clearly been sitting with this, turning it over in his mind, dissecting it in that way only he can. And now, he wants answers.

"I—I didn't—"

He tilts his head slowly, and my breath catches. Not a word passes his lips, but the movement alone is enough of a warning.

"Try again, love." His shadows swirl around us despite the morning light filtering through the curtains.

I stay silent.

Azriel exhales, his grip on my waist flexing. "I've been up all night trying to figure out why you'd feel the need to fake something like that. Especially with me." His voice is soft, but it cuts through me all the same. "And I can't. So tell me—why?"

"I didn't want you to feel bad," I murmur, barely above a whisper. "You treat me so well, all the time. I didn't want you getting hung up on this one night."

But here we were—doing exactly that.

His jaw tightens, tension carving sharp lines into his face. The early morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, but there is nothing soft about the way he's looking at me. Still, his hands find mine, fingers intertwining. The roughness of his scars against my skin is familiar. Comforting.

"Do you think so little of me?" The words are quiet, but no less devastating.

"No." I snap my gaze to his, panic flickering in my chest. "No, never, Az."

His thumb skims over my knuckles before he brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss there. "Then why lie?" he asks, the warmth of his breath lingering. "Do you not trust me to take care of you? Do you not want me to?"

His voice dips lower, and my stomach clenches. He truly had to be thinking about this all night to draw up these conclusions.

"I do," I rush to reassure him. "Of course I do. I was just—I was tired, that's all." I lean closer, brushing my lips against his in a gentle kiss.

He doesn't pull away. Doesn't let go of my waist. But when he tilts his head, the look in his eyes shifts into something sharper. Something hungry.

"You tired now?"

His mouth finds mine again, deeper this time. Slow, deliberate, teasing.

I exhale softly. "No."

Azriel mirrors my smile, but there's something different about his. Something sharper. More feral.

"Good."

And before I can react, he's got me beneath him, arms pinned above my head, a wicked gleam in his hazel eyes.

A gasp catches in my throat as Azriel moves, fast and fluid, flipping me beneath him before I can so much as blink. My wrists are pinned above my head, his scarred fingers wrapped firmly around them, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.

His wings flare slightly, blocking out the golden slant of morning light, leaving nothing but the two of us in the shadows. His shadows.

They curl around his frame like living threads of darkness, writhing in time with his slow, deliberate breaths. The way he looks at me now—hazel eyes molten, jaw tight, lips slightly parted—sends a shiver down my spine.

"You really thought I wouldn't notice, didn't you?" His voice is low, rough, but not angry. No, the way he says it—the way he watches me squirm beneath him—is something else entirely.

I swallow hard. "Azriel, I—"

"You were exhausted." He hums as if considering my excuse. "Didn't want to hurt my feelings." A soft scoff leaves him, his nose brushing the shell of my ear. "What a sweet little lie."

I shudder, my fingers flexing uselessly beneath his grip. "It wasn't—I just—"

"Didn't think I could handle the truth?" He trails a hand down my side, fingers whispering over the thin fabric of my nightgown, tracing every dip, every curve. "Or did you think I wouldn't take care of you properly?"

I shake my head quickly, but he catches my chin between his fingers, forcing me to look at him.

"You know I don't like being lied to, love," he murmurs, voice silken and dark. "Especially not about this, you forgot though."

His thumb drags over my bottom lip, and my breath hitches. He watches me, eyes burning, gaze sharp enough to cut.

"Let's fix that, yeah?"

His grip on my wrists tightens just as his free hand moves lower, skimming over my stomach, my thighs—slow, teasing, deliberate.

"You're going to be honest with me from now on." A soft kiss, barely there, pressed to my throat. "You're going to let me take care of you the way I always do." Another kiss, lower this time, lingering over my pulse.

"And you, love," he whispers, teeth grazing against my skin, "are going to learn exactly what happens when you try to keep something like that from me."

His shadows coil around my ankles, holding me in place, and then—

I lose the ability to think.

"Az," I breathe, my body arching instinctively beneath him, trying to chase the warmth of his touch. But he holds me still, his fingers barely skimming where I need him most, his shadows curling tighter around my wrists and ankles like they, too, are in on his cruel game.

Azriel hums, amused. "You sound a little desperate, love."

I glare at him, but it's hard to make it convincing when I'm squirming beneath him, my pulse racing, my breath coming too fast. "You're being cruel."

His lips curl at the accusation. "Am I?" His fingers dance along the edge of my nightgown, slipping just beneath it before retreating just as quickly, his touch featherlight. "Seems to me I'm just teaching a valuable lesson."

"You're insufferable."

Azriel chuckles, the sound low and sinful, sending a ripple of heat through me. "You weren't saying that last night."

Heat floods my face. "Maybe because last night, you weren't tormenting me."

His brows lift, feigning innocence. "And yet you didn't come. Seems to me you like the tormenting." He dips his head, kissing a slow, searing path along my collarbone. "But if you'd prefer, I could stop."

A smirk plays at his lips as he starts to pull away as if testing to see just how desperate I really am.

I scowl, tightening my legs around his waist, locking him in place. "Don't you dare."

His laughter is warm against my skin, and the next thing I know, his fingers are on my thighs, tracing slow, torturous circles. "That's more like it," he murmurs approvingly. "Now, tell me, love—" his lips ghost over the shell of my ear, his voice nothing but a delicious rasp, "—you going to fake it again?"

My brows furrow as I peer up at him through my lashes.

"No," Azriel grins, wicked and knowing. "I'm not going to stop until you're too wrecked to even think about faking it again."

A sharp inhale. A rush of heat.

His hands tighten, and his voice drops to a whisper, his words dripping with sinful promise.

His fingers move with calculated precision, unbuttoning my top one slow pop at a time. I help him shed it, my own hands sliding beneath his shirt, mapping the warm, golden skin stretched over taut muscle. The ink of his tattoos shifts under my touch as he pulls the fabric over his head and tosses it aside.

I lean in, capturing his lips, but he meets me halfway, claiming my mouth with a hunger that steals my breath. His tongue sweeps past my lips, exploring greedily, and I moan softly into him.

Then, suddenly, my wrists are pinned to the mattress, bound by the whisper-soft strength of his shadows. A gasp catches in my throat, my body instinctively tugging, but it's futile. Azriel merely smirks, his fingers skating down my sides, toying with the band of my panties, the heat of his touch sending sparks across my skin.

I lift my hips in a silent plea, urging him on, but he only chuckles, slow and deep. "Patience, love," he chastises, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric.

"Please," I whisper, desperate.

Azriel hums in approval but moves achingly slow, peeling the lace from my body like he has all the time in the world. His knuckles brush against my thighs as he drags them down, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

"I want you to feel everything," he murmurs, lips ghosting over my collarbone, where a faint mark from last night still lingers. A reminder. A promise.

"Az," I whine, shifting against the restraints, needing more, needing him.

He tsks, dark amusement glittering in his hazel eyes. "I know, I know," he coos, dragging his mouth along my skin, teasing me with every slow, lingering kiss. "But you can be patient can't you?"

I nod, breathless, eyes locked onto his as he trails lower.

"Good," he praises, but his voice dips into something more commanding. "And you understand I can't reward your bratty behavior?"

"Yes," I whisper.

His brows arch. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

Azriel's smirk is wicked, his satisfaction rolling off him in waves. "There's my girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my stomach before lowering himself further between my thighs. "Now stay still for me, yeah?"

I nod, back arching as I ready myself.

His breath is warm against my skin, teasing, taunting, and when his lips ghost over where I need him most, a helpless whimper spills from my lips. I tip my head back into the pillows, unable to watch, unable to handle the way he's taking his time, savoring the way I fall apart beneath him before he's even truly touched me.

"Sweet girl," he murmurs, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "So needy. Just couldn't get off, could you?"

I shake my head pitifully. "No," I manage, my voice barely above a breath.

He clicks his tongue, pressing a featherlight kiss to my inner thigh. "It's okay, love," he murmurs, and then his grip tightens on my hips, holding me still as he finally, finally drags his tongue through my slick folds.

A choked moan tumbles from my lips, my back arching further off the bed, but his shadows keep me grounded. He hums in approval against me, the vibration sending a fresh wave of heat coiling low in my stomach.

"Azriel," I moan, writhing, tugging uselessly at the darkness binding my wrists. "Please."

He smirks against me but doesn't answer, just hikes one of my legs over his shoulder, deepening his assault. His tongue flicks over my clit with precision, his mouth sealing around the sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking just hard enough to have me keening.

I can't move. Can't grind against him, can't chase the pleasure building inside me—because he's making sure that my release comes entirely from him.

That realization has me spiraling even faster.

"Az—Azriel, please," I gasp, my thighs trembling as the coil tightens, winding impossibly tight.

His grip on my hips bruises, his scarred fingers pressing into my skin as his tongue circles my clit again and again.

"Go ahead, love," he rasps against me, his voice thick with satisfaction. The vibrations of his words against my swollen, aching cunt are all it takes to send me over the edge.

I shatter, a sharp cry tearing from my throat as my orgasm crashes through me, my body locking up before melting into the mattress. My vision whites out, pleasure consuming me in wave after relentless wave.

Azriel doesn't stop. Doesn't let up. He guides me through it, slow and deliberate, savoring every aftershock.

"There it is," he murmurs, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss to my sensitive folds before glancing up at me, utterly wrecked beneath him. "My girl looks so pretty when she comes."

The flat of his tongue gathers my arousal on his tongue, cleaning me. A soft, broken whimper is the only response I can manage.

But Azriel isn't done. Not yet. Not until I've learned my lesson.

I panted softly, still trembling as he kissed his way back up my body, his mouth hot and unrelenting against my flushed skin. Every inch of me is still humming from the waves of pleasure he's wrung out of me.

His lips trail over my breasts, pressing a kiss to one before he takes the stiff peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling in slow, torturous circles. The same tongue that had just shattered me now teases and soothes in equal measure, and I bow into his touch, a soft gasp spilling from my lips.

"Azriel," I rasp, tugging against my dark restraints.

His shadows hold firm, but he lifts his gaze to me through his lashes, those hazel eyes molten with desire. My breath catches, and I swear I feel the heat of his stare everywhere. His tongue flicks against my nipple, sharp and purposeful, and my thighs instinctively fall back open for him.

He smirks, releasing my breast with a wet pop before kissing his way up, up, until he finds my lips. He swallows my soft whimper as his tongue slides past my lips, letting me taste myself on him. The intimacy of it makes my head spin, and I kiss him back greedily, nipping at his lower lip when he pulls away.

His breath is warm against my mouth as he murmurs, "Inside?"

"Yes," I breathe, my voice barely more than a whisper. "I need you inside me."

His lips quirk up in a lazy, knowing smile. "Yeah? You need it?"

"Please," I whimper, my desperation laid bare.

Azriel hums, kissing me again, slow and deep, before pulling away. The sound of his belt unbuckling, the rustle of fabric as he shoves his pants down—it sends a thrilling pulse of anticipation through me.

I was so attuned to him, his sounds, the feel of him. The heat of him between my thighs, the way he strokes himself once, twice, teasing me with the promise of what's to come.

Then he's there, pressing the thick head of his cock against my slick entrance, and I nearly sob with need.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice dark with satisfaction as he teases me, sliding just the tip inside before pulling back. "So wet, so ready—"

"Az," I whine, my hips tilting, seeking him.

His hand presses down on my stomach, holding me still. "You take what I give you, love. Nothing more."

I moan at his words, at the sheer dominance in his tone, and then he pushes in, stretching me inch by inch until he's seated fully inside me. He takes his time, driving me wild in the process, each slow thrust pulling a desperate sound from my lips. My walls flutter around him, trying to draw him deeper, but he holds himself back, teasing, torturing.

By the time he finally sinks to the hilt, I'm panting, trembling beneath him, my body molded perfectly to his.

A low groan rumbles through his chest, his head dropping to the crook of my neck as he rolls his hips once, dragging a sharp gasp from me. "Fuck," he breathes, his voice wrecked. "So tight. Always so fucking perfect for me."

I whimper, my body adjusting to the delicious burn of being so completely filled, stretched to the limit around him.

Azriel pulls back slowly, almost entirely, before thrusting forward again, his pace agonizingly slow, like he's savoring the way I squeeze around him.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice dark, wicked. "How deep I am?"

"Yes," I pant, my wrists straining against my restraints, desperate to touch him, to claw at his back, to do anything other than lie there and take it.

But that's exactly what he wants.

He rolls his hips again, dragging himself against that spot inside me that has my toes curling, my back arching off the bed.

"You lied to me, love," he reminds me, his tone thick with amusement, with something darker, more possessive. "So now I get to decide how long you last."

A whimper slips from my lips, and he chuckles, low and satisfied.

"You'll take what I give you," he murmurs, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me still even as I writhe beneath him. "And you'll thank me for it."

Then he pulls back and thrusts into me hard, setting a punishing rhythm that steals the breath from my lungs.

He grips my thighs, spreading me wider, fucking into me so deep I swear I can feel him everywhere, in my bones, in my blood.

"So good, you're always so good for me," he groans, his voice rough, barely held together. His restraint is a fragile thing, and gods, knowing I could break him with a single plea makes me throb around him.

"So cruel of me," he muses, his thrusts slowing, dragging out my torture, "to come inside this pretty pussy last night without making sure my girl got her release, hm?"

All I can do is whimper, my head tipping back, body trembling as he fucks me slow, deep, each deliberate roll of his hips making me feel every inch of him.

The rhythmic sound of the bed slamming into the wall and his low, guttural grunts fill the room, the air thick with heat, with the wet, obscene sounds of him driving into me. I bite into my lower lip to stop myself from sounding so damned desperate, but we both know—Azriel knows—just how wrecked I am.

The proof of it is between my thighs, soaking his cock, dripping down onto the sheets.

His hand slides down my stomach, his fingertips ghosting over my clit, not quite touching, just enough to make me sob in frustration.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice full of wicked delight. "Fucking dripping for me." His thumb swipes through my slick folds, pressing teasingly just above where I need him most. "So messy, love. So needy."

I whimper, arching into his touch, desperate for relief.

Azriel tuts, shaking his head. "Oh no, sweetheart. You don't get to come yet."

I whine, a broken, desperate sound, and he just chuckles, pulling his hand away entirely.

"You wanted to lie to me," he reminds me, his lips brushing over my jaw as his cock twitches inside me. "Now you get to feel what it's like to be left aching, desperate, needing."

I sob, my head thrashing against the pillow, but he just keeps fucking me, slow and deep, making me take every inch of him without giving me a single ounce of relief.

I fucking love it.

Azriel smirks against my throat, dragging his lips down the column of my neck, his cock still buried deep inside me, thrusting slow, deep, controlled. My body is writhing beneath him, my nails digging uselessly into my palms as his shadows keep me bound.

"Poor thing," he murmurs, nipping at the spot just below my jaw, his tongue soothing over the sting. "You sound so fucking desperate."

I whimper in response, my thighs trembling, my cunt clenching down around him in a futile attempt to pull him deeper, to coax him into fucking me the way I need.

He chuckles, low and dark, dragging his cock out so slow before sinking back in, every inch stretching me open again, every movement meant to drive me insane.

"You said you'd be good for me," he muses, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Said you understood why I had to punish you."

I nod frantically, my breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, the angle perfectly devastating.

"Then why," he murmurs, his lips brushing over my ear, "are you whining like a slut, love?"

A full-body shudder rolls through me at his words, and he laughs—a wicked, pleased sound—because he knows exactly what that does to me.

"Oh?" His grin is evident in his tone. "You like that?"

"Azriel," I rasp, my voice ruined, my body burning.

"Sir," he corrects smoothly, his hand wrapping around my throat, applying just the lightest pressure.

"Sir," I breathe, and fuck—I shouldn't be this turned on, shouldn't be this gone just from the way he's talking to me.

He hums in approval, dragging his nose along my cheek before whispering, "That's my girl."

And then he stops moving.

I let out a cry, bucking my hips, desperate for anything, but his grip on my throat tightens just slightly as a warning.

"Ah, ah," he tuts, shaking his head. "You'll take what I give you, remember?"

"Yes, sir," I whimper, my head falling back.

His thumb brushes over my lower lip. "Such a good girl." He tilts his head, pretending to consider something. "Maybe I should make you beg for it properly."

"I—" My voice catches as he barely rolls his hips, just enough for me to feel him inside me without giving me any real relief.

"I think I will," he murmurs, his thumb pressing against my lips. "Go on, love. Beg."

"Please, sir," I whisper, my voice barely audible.

He tuts, shaking his head. "Oh, sweetheart, you're not even trying. You know you can do better than that."

He pulls out entirely, making me sob in frustration, in unbearable, aching need.

"Again," he commands, his tone all silk and steel.

"Please," I gasp, my back arching, my legs trembling. "Please, sir, I need you so bad, I—fuck—I can't—"

He groans, his cock twitching against my entrance, and finally—finally—he slams back inside me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

"That's it," he praises, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm that has my nails digging into my palms, my mouth falling open on a soundless moan. "That's my fucking girl."

I'm ruined beneath him, my body alight with pleasure, with torment, with the unbearable need to come. And he knows.

His hand drops between us, his fingers finding my clit, and I wail, my body bowing off the bed as he circles the swollen bud with just the right amount of pressure.

"You wanna come, love?" he murmurs, his breath hot against my skin.

"Yes, sir," I sob. "Please, please, please—"

His pace falters, just for a second.

"Fuck," he rasps, his cock twitching inside me. "You sound so pretty when you beg for me."

"Then please," I cry, the pleasure coiling so tight I can't take it anymore.

He presses his forehead against mine, his thrusts turning erratic, desperate.

"Come for me, love," he breathes. "Now."

And fuck—I shatter.

My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, my body seizing, my back arching, my walls fluttering wildly around him as I scream his name.

But Azriel—he doesn't stop.

Not even for a second.

"That's it," he growls, his fingers still working my clit, dragging my pleasure out, making my body shake, making me wail. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

My body jerks, as my breath stutters and my thighs tremble violently from the sheer intensity of my release, he just keeps going.

"Too much," I gasp, my body writhing beneath him, every nerve ending alight with unbearable pleasure. "Sir—"

His hand tightens around my waist, his hips still slamming into me, his cock dragging against that spot inside me that makes my vision white out.

I sob, my body tensing as another wave of pleasure builds, impossibly fast, impossibly sharp.

"What's wrong, love?" he murmurs, his lips brushing over the shell of my ear. "You were so eager for it just a moment ago."

His fingers press against my clit, rubbing tight, devastating circles, making my body twitch beneath him.

"I—fuck, I can't—"

Azriel just grins, leaning down to kiss my temple, so mockingly sweet.

"You can," he purrs, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction. "You were just begging for it, I know you can."

I whimper, my head tossing to the side, my brain too fogged to even process anything beyond the ruthless way he's using me.

"Look at you," he muses, his tone full of wicked amusement. "Fucked so dumb you can't even think straight."

I moan at his words, my legs trembling around his waist.

He laughs, low and mean, his fingers still ruthlessly working my clit, even as my entire body shakes from the overstimulation.

"What was that, love?" His teeth graze my jaw, sending another shudder down my spine. "You like being used like this?"

I sob, my head tossing back, unable to form words, unable to do anything with my hands and ankles bound. I loved it, he knew I loved it.

"Fuck," he groans, his thrusts growing erratic, his grip on my wrists bruising. "You're so fucking perfect like this—just my little plaything to fuck as I please."

I wail, my body burning, pleasure suffocating me as another climax threatens to rip through me. The pleasure was wringing me out dry.

His fingers press against my clit, merciless, relentless.

"You gonna give me another one, sweetheart?" His voice is taunting, his lips brushing over my ear. "Gonna come on my cock again, even though it's too much?" He mocks.

I nod frantically, tears slipping down my temples, my body convulsing from the unbearable pleasure.

He smirks, so fucking smug.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs. "My perfect little slut."

I gripe, clenching around him tightly.

Azriel moans, his cock twitching inside me, his thrusts growing sloppier, more frantic.

"One more," he growls, his hand wrapping around my throat, squeezing just right. "Give me one more, love. Be good for me."

I don't even have the breath to scream. And then he snaps his hips forward, his fingers moving faster, and I fucking lose it, another orgasm ripping through me, dragging me under, drowning me in white-hot bliss.

I just shatter, my body breaking apart, my vision going dark at the edges as pleasure obliterates me.

And Azriel—he fucking laughs, still thrusting, still pushing me, ruining me.

"That's my girl," he purrs. "Always so good for me."

Azriel pulls out slowly, almost tenderly, and I slump against the mattress, my body wrecked, trembling with the aftershocks of everything he's done to me. My wrists ache from pulling against the shadows, my legs barely responding to me as I try to catch my breath.

I think—finally. He's done.

But then his hands are on me again, flipping me onto my stomach in one fluid, effortless motion, his strength overpowering.

"Didn't think I was done, did you sweet girl?" he murmurs, his voice like a dark promise as he hauls me up onto my knees.

I barely have a second to process before his hand presses against my back, forcing my chest down, stuffing my face into the pillows.

I gasp, my arms pinned uselessly beneath me, my body still twitching from overstimulation as I feel him behind me—feel the hard press of his cock sliding between my soaked folds, teasing, not yet giving me what I know he's about to.

"Azriel," I mumble, my voice muffled against the pillows, wrecked and pleading.

He tuts at me, his grip tight as he spreads my knees wider, forcing me open for him.

"You think you can take another round?" His voice is full of mockery, his hand running slowly over my hip before gripping me there, holding me in place. "You've been so good for me, taking everything I've given you—you wouldn't let me down now would you?"

"No sir," I moan softly, my body already shuddering with anticipation as he lines himself up, the head of his cock nudging against my entrance.

I barely have time to pant out a desperate, "Sir," before he thrusts inside me, deep, the new angle making me see fucking stars.

I scream, my fingers clenching uselessly into the sheets as he fills me completely, pressing so deep it makes my entire body tremble.

"Fuck, that's better," he groans, his hands sliding up to grip my waist as he pulls out almost entirely before slamming back in, his pace instantly ruthless.

My mouth drops open in a silent moan, my mind blanking as he uses my body, fucking me like he owns me, like he's never going to stop.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" he murmurs, his voice dark, smug. "To be bent over like this, my cock so deep inside you, you can't even think?"

I sob against the pillows, my body already climbing toward another release, my overstimulated nerves sparking with unbearable pleasure.

Azriel just laughs, his hands gripping my hips as he forces my legs to stay open, refusing to let me close them, refusing to let me hide from how utterly ruined I am.

"You're so fucking perfect like this," he breathes, leaning down so his chest presses against my back, his teeth grazing my ear. "Taking me so well, love. My perfect slut."

I keen, my walls clamping down around him, my entire body melting under his words, his touch, his fucking torment.

"That's it," he purrs, his fingers sliding down between my legs, finding my clit, rubbing it in cruel little circles. "Come for me again, sweetheart. I want to feel you break on my cock."

He keeps his pace brutal even as I flutter around him, his grip on my hips unrelenting as he fucks me into the mattress, each thrust shoving me deeper into the pillows, like he's trying to mold me to the shape of his cock.

And all I can do is take it. Take the way he ruins me, the way he stretches me open again and again, making me feel so fucking full I can't even think.

"You hear yourself, sweetheart?" he taunts, his voice dark, drenched in amusement as he listens to the wrecked little sobs spilling from my lips. "Crying for me while you drip all over my cock like a good whore."

I sob again, pleasure and overstimulation making my body shake, making my mind fog over with nothing but him.

"F-fuck, Az," I whimper, my fingers clawing uselessly at the sheets.

His hand cracks against my ass, making me jolt forward on a choked-out cry.

"Sir," he corrects again, his tone firm, his free hand sliding up my back, tracing the arch his thrusts are forcing me into.

My walls clench around him so tight it drags a deep, filthy groan from his chest.

"You like that?" he purrs, smug as sin, rolling his hips in slow, torturous circles, making sure I feel every inch of him. "Like knowing I could fill this pretty little cunt up—watch you swell with my seed?"

I whimper, my toes curling at the thought, at the absolute filth pouring from his lips.

And then his hand is sliding down, pressing to my lower stomach—right where he's buried deep inside of me.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest, his fingers flexing as he feels where he's stretching me open, where he'd fill me up if he let himself go.

"Fuck," he breathes, his grip tightening on my hip as he thrusts again, shoving deeper just to feel the bulge of himself inside me. "So fucking deep, love. You feel that?"

I nod weakly, my eyes rolling back, my body trembling as another broken sob leaves my lips.

He laughs, wicked and cruel.

"Already so fucked out, aren't you?" he taunts, dragging his palm over my stomach, pressing harder just to make me feel how deep he is. "Poor little thing—just a dumb, desperate mess on my cock."

I keen, my legs shaking, my body completely wrecked and at his mercy.

He twitches, my body arching as he presses into a spot that makes my vision go white, my mouth falling open in a pitiful pant. "Sir, feels, so good," I whimpered.

"Yeah? Greedy girl, going to come again?" He taunted, lips brushing against my shoulder, his sweat-slicked chest kissing my bowed back.

"Please—can I?" His pace didn't slow, even if I knew he was getting closer, he grew more and more sloppy but he did not slow.

"Wait f'me, I'm almost there," He whispered into my skin.

I clenched around him, unable to help myself, wanting to help him get there. My arms shook, near to giving out as I panted into the bed sheets, gripping the pristine white cloth in my fist to stop myself from moving up on the bed.

He twitched inside of me again, growing eager. "Inside," I breathe softly. "Fill me," I beg.

"Yeah? Want me to claim this cunt?" He whispered, lips grazing over the shell of my ear.

"Please, sir," I beg, bottom lip wobbling.

"Okay love, come—come f'me," He chokes slightly, consumed by his need for release. I doubted I could hold onto that edge for much longer, and the sound that left me during that final orgasm was louder than the rest, primal in a way. He twitched once more, and as I clenched tightly around him from the cresting of my orgasm, he came too, painting my walls white with his thick release.

He thrust slowly, gently, easing me down from the white-hot high that still had my body trembling. My whimper was soft, and breathless, as he finally pulled from me, his release spilling from me, warm and slick against my thighs. If not for his steady hands cradling me, guiding me down onto the mattress, I might've collapsed completely.

"Not too much?" His voice was hushed, rough around the edges, like he was just as wrecked as I was, despite that Illyrian stamina keeping him upright. A calloused hand brushed through my likely tangled hair, tucking it behind my ear so he could see me clearly.

I tried to form words, but all I could manage was a breathless, "No." A slow inhale, then, "Felt s'good." My voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper, and even that much effort felt like too much.

He hummed softly, pressing a lingering kiss to my temple. "You did so good," he murmured against my skin before slipping his arms beneath me. I barely had time to react before I was in his embrace again, lifted with ease. "Let's get you cleaned up."

I nodded weakly, my limbs boneless, and let him carry me into the bathroom. The cool marble of the counter met the flushed heat of my skin, soothing, grounding. I watched him through heavy-lidded eyes, admiring him in this quiet aftermath. The way his jaw clenched in focus as he wrung out a damp cloth. The tenderness in his touch as he wiped me down, extra careful between my thighs. The contrast of his rough, battle-worn hands moving with such exquisite care.

He combed through my hair next, untangling the knots his fingers had left earlier, his motions steady, unhurried. Every stroke, every pass of his hands over my body, was reverent. Devotional.

He kissed me softly then, tasting of cedar and salt, of something uniquely him. His hands skimmed my sides, his touch a whisper of heat against my skin.

"Six times." His voice was smug, but quiet, like he was half-talking to himself.

I blinked up at him, dazed. "Hm?"

"You came six times." His lips quirked into a knowing smirk, his fingers tracing idle patterns along my thigh.

Heat flooded my already flushed cheeks, my stomach twisting with something like mortification and pride all at once. If he knew so easily, then surely he knew immediately last night when it wasn't real.

"You were counting?"

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Had to make up for last night."

I huffed a small, breathy laugh. "You did."

His smirk softened as he kissed me again. Slow. Deep. A promise.

"How do you know?" I murmured against his lips, pulling back just enough for our noses to brush. "When I come?"

His gaze darkened, and something in his expression made my stomach flip. "You make this pretty face," he said, voice dropping, thumb tracing my bottom lip. "You couldn't fake it if you tried."

I swallowed hard, heat pooling low once more.

"And you always moan my name," he continued, pressing a slow kiss to my throat. "Every single time." His lips dragged over my pulse, felt the way it jumped. "Without fail, it's always my name on your lips."

I could feel my blush creeping lower, my skin burning everywhere he touched.

"You didn't last night," he murmured, voice a lazy drawl like he was enjoying my embarrassment. "Wasn't hard to figure out."

I groaned, dropping my forehead against his shoulder, but I couldn't help but laugh at myself. He chuckled too, the sound a warm rumble against my skin.

I pressed a kiss to his temple, letting my hands roam down his back, enjoying the feel of his muscles beneath my touch.

"So," I mused, still breathless, still utterly spent. "Breakfast?"

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Six | The Quiet Burn | The Ruin

Pairing - Rhysand x reader (Mafia Boss Rhysand x Nurse Reader)

Word count - 3.1k

Warnings - Violence, physical assault

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It had been a week since I'd walked away from Rhysand. Seven days of silence. No texts. No calls. No lingering glances across parking lots. No unexpected dinners. No him.

And yet, I still thought about him—constantly.

He'd kept his word. He stayed away. But gods, it hurt.

I kept waiting for the anger to settle in, for the betrayal to burn brighter than the ache. But it never did. 

Because no matter how many times I reminded myself what he was, my heart kept whispering who he had been—to me.

The man who made me coffee exactly how I liked it. The man who made me laugh so hard I forgot what stress felt like. The man who looked at me like I wasn't broken, but rare.

I hated him for being a criminal. But I hated myself more for missing him anyway.

Retail therapy helped—sort of. I spent the afternoon weaving through boutiques and department stores, trying to silence the gnawing emptiness inside me with soft fabrics and ridiculous prices. 

My arms were loaded with bags by the time I stepped onto the pavement, my headphones blaring a nostalgic pop track I half-sang under my breath.

I didn't notice the van until it was too late.

The tires screeched against the asphalt, and I barely had a second to register the open door before hands grabbed me—too many hands.

I struggled, dropped everything, kicked, screamed but a cloth was already pressed to my nose. I tried to hold my breath. Tried to think.

But the world spun fast, then black.

I woke to cold.

My body ached, head pounding like someone had driven a spike between my temples. My wrists were bound behind me, ropes biting into the skin. The chair beneath me was hard metal. 

I blinked against the dim, industrial lighting of what looked like some kind of warehouse or basement room. Shadows moved at the edges. People—watching.

And then one stepped forward.

Red hair. Gleaming eyes. A cruel mouth twisted in delight.

"Welcome back, little bunny," the man purred.

My blood froze.

Beron Vanserra. I had heard his name—once or twice. In whispers. In Lucien's voice when it shook ever so slightly talking about his past. The real reason he left the life he'd been born into. 

The man in front of me had always seemed like a distant threat. A boogeyman.

Now, he was standing inches from me.

He ripped the tape from my mouth harshly and I bit back a cry, glaring up at him.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," he said, circling me like a wolf. "You've become quite the darling of our dear Rhysand. My, my... how he's fallen."

My stomach twisted.

"What do you want?" I snapped, fear buried beneath forced bravery.

Beron's grin only widened. "Just tying up some loose ends, you could say. And imagine my delight when I realised you weren't just Rhysand's little bunny... you're also friendly with my son."

My heart plummeted. Lucien.

"Leave him out of this," I hissed.

"Too late, sweetheart," another voice chimed in. A younger one. More mocking.

I turned my head slowly and saw three more redheads lounging by the wall, each one resembling the next like a set of cursed nesting dolls. Lucien's brothers. I didn't know their names. Didn't want to.

But one of them stepped forward, smirking. "Two birds. One stone."

"Rhysand won't know what hit him," Beron said, eyes glittering. "And when he comes running—and he will—he'll bring his empire crumbling behind him."

It all clicked in a sickening snap. This wasn't just about me. It was about power. About Rhysand. I was just leverage.

"No one's coming for you," one of the others sneered, grabbing my chin roughly. "No prince in a suit. No old friend. You're all alone here."

I tore my face away, heart pounding out of rhythm.

The chair beneath me suddenly felt smaller. The air thinner.

One of them approached slowly, more thoughtful than the others. His expression wasn't smug, not entirely. But it was cold. Calculating. Unreadable.

"You're just a girl," he said softly. "But you're going to be very, very important."

The words sent ice through my veins. I wasn't just bait. I was the match they were about to light.

Beron finally left.

His sharp voice faded down the corridor, barked commands echoing like bullets down concrete halls. The door slammed behind him with a finality that sent a chill through my bones, even though I should have felt relief. I didn't.

Because the true danger hadn't left the room.

It remained, looming in the forms of his sons—each one painted in the same bloodline, the same cruel angles and burning, copper eyes. 

Lucien never talked much about them. Not really. And now I understood why.

One of them, the youngest maybe, cocky and twitching with too much energy, stalked toward me with a grin that never reached his eyes.

He crouched in front of me, too close.

Then, with the kind of arrogance that comes from never being told "no," he trailed a single finger along my cheek. Cold. Possessive.

I flinched.

"Imagine how furious Rhysand will be," he whispered. His voice was syrupy and venomous, a threat wrapped in a dare. "When he finds out we've got his little bunny locked up like a pretty toy."

His fingers closed hard around my chin, forcing my head up.

I clenched my teeth. I wanted to spit in his face, but I wasn't sure if I'd make it out of this room alive if I did.

"Ziggy," a voice cut through the tension. Cool, sharp, commanding. "Back away from her. Father hasn't given an order."

Eris. The eldest. The one Lucien had always spoken of in clipped but quietly conflicted tones. He'd said once, "Eris walks a tightrope. He's cruel—but he knows it."

Ziggy scoffed, releasing me with a disappointed grunt. "I'm just having fun."

"This isn't a game," Eris snapped. There was steel beneath his words, so refined it chilled the air. "She's leverage, not a toy."

Ziggy retreated, muttering something under his breath, but he listened. They all did.

I looked up at Eris from my chair, wrists still bound behind my back, the ache in my shoulders growing worse by the minute. Eris stood tall near the door, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Something flickered. Something in his eyes shifted when our gazes locked.

A softening. So fleeting I might've imagined it.

His face didn't move. His jaw was still sharp, clenched. His eyes still held that calculated cold. But for a single, flickering second, I could have sworn he looked... sorry.

Then, just as quickly, the mask returned. Hard. Impenetrable.

He turned his back without a word and barked at the others, "Leave her alone. If anyone touches her again before Father decides what to do, I'll put a bullet between their eyes myself."

A pause. A silence. And not a single Vanserra brother questioned it. They scattered. Ziggy snarled under his breath and stormed out. The others grumbled, but obeyed.

Eris remained only long enough to glance over his shoulder. He didn't say anything. Didn't offer sympathy. Didn't undo my bindings.

But in that look I saw something I hadn't expected. Regret. And that was almost more terrifying than his cruelty.

Because it meant he knew. He knew this was wrong and he was going to let it happen anyway.

I don't know how long I sat there, heart thudding like a war drum in my chest.

The ropes burned deeper into my skin with every twitch. My mouth was dry, my limbs screamed, and I was shivering—though the room wasn't cold anymore. 

No, it was heatless in a different way. That kind of dread that lingers in the bones, that makes your body instinctively prepare for pain before it even arrives.

And it did. It came in the form of Ziggy. Again.

Eris wasn't here he had probably left to speak to Beron, maybe, or simply stayed away because he couldn't stand to watch.

In his absence, the wolves descended.

"Didn't take much to get rid of big brother," one of them sneered, stepping into the circle of light around me. "Too soft for this life."

I tried to steel myself. I didn't speak. Didn't scream. Didn't beg.

But my silence? It only seemed to excite them.

Ziggy struck first.

A slap, sharp and vicious cracked across my face. My head snapped sideways, and I tasted blood almost immediately. Copper flooded my tongue, warm and sickening.

"You like fucking Rhysand, don't you?" he hissed, standing over me, breath sour and eyes alight with madness.

I didn't respond.

So the second brother punched me. Right in the stomach. My body convulsed forward in the chair, the wind knocked clean out of me. I choked on air, pain blooming like wildfire.

"Answer him," the third one growled, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back.

Tears sprang to my eyes unbidden—not from pain, not entirely but from fury.

From helplessness.

From the brutal clarity of knowing this wasn't about me. I was a pawn. A weak spot in Rhysand's armour. They couldn't touch him, so they'd hurt me instead.

They hit me again. And again. And again.

Until I couldn't hold myself upright. Until my knees scraped the concrete and my blood patterned the floor in slow, red drips.

I didn't scream. Not once. Not even when one of them cracked my lip open with the back of his hand. I just let the tears fall silently.

I could feel swelling forming on my cheekbone. My eye was already beginning to close. And my ribs... gods, I wasn't sure if they were bruised or broken.

They left eventually. Cowards always do, after they've drained all the fight out of something smaller.

But I stayed there, hunched and shaking on the floor, the ropes now cutting into bloodied skin. Everything hurt. My vision blurred in and out, my ears rang.

And all I could think—over and over like a prayer was Rhys, please. Find me.

Because for all his darkness, his danger, he had never made me feel like this. Not powerless. Not worthless. Not afraid.

I cried then. Really cried. The kind that bubbles up from the pit of your soul and escapes in trembling gasps you can't contain. It was ugly. Raw. Unfiltered grief and shame and regret.

I'd told him to stay away.

But gods, I didn't want him to.

I needed him now like I needed air in my lungs. I needed Rhysand, not the man I accused of being a monster. I needed my Rhysand.

Because if he didn't come soon... I wasn't sure how much longer I could survive.

Rhysand's POV - 

The second Azriel uttered the words, "They took her," something inside me snapped.

Not cracked. Snapped. Like a blade honed too sharp for too long.

The world narrowed. My vision tunnelled into blood and bone and the image of her face, tear-streaked, frightened, alone. My little bunny. The girl who once looked at me like I was more than a monster. Who had pulled softness out of stone.

And I let her walk away.

I let her walk into a world that had teeth. Now they'd sunk those teeth into her, and I was going to rip them out.

"Leverage," Azriel said again, voice clipped, low. "Vanserras. She's their message."

My hands clenched on the steering wheel hard enough to snap the leather. "She's not a message," I growled. "She's mine."

Cassian swore beside me, loading another round into his sidearm. "They have no fucking clue what they just did."

They didn't.

But they would.

By the time I finished with them, Beron Vanserra and every breathing thing in that building would beg for death. And I wouldn't grant it. Not right away.

We tracked the location with ruthless efficiency, Azriel hacking into back channels, Cassian coordinating the blockades, the clean-up. 

But me? I wasn't thinking. I was feeling and what I felt was pure, white-hot rage.

The warehouse came into view like something out of a war zone, cold steel, no windows, a single floodlight flickering above the door like it was already waiting for hell to arrive.

"Rhys—" Azriel started, but I was already out of the car.

My boots hit the gravel. My coat billowed behind me like smoke. I didn't knock. Didn't speak. I kicked the metal doors in like a god descending from fury, and the moment the first man came at me, I slit his throat so fast he didn't have time to scream.

Blood sprayed across my jaw, warm and iron-thick. And I did not stop.

Screams erupted. Gunfire rang.

But nothing touched me. Not the bullets. Not the begging. Not even the scent of blood pooling at my feet as I carved my way through the Vanserras' security.

I hunted them.

Every man in my path dropped. Throats slashed. Spines shattered. Eyes wide as they realised who had come for them.

I wasn't Rhysand, the polished man in a suit anymore. I was Death incarnate.

And I was coming for my girl.

"Basement," Azriel shouted, fighting his own way through a wall of bodies.

I didn't wait. I moved like a shadow, like vengeance forged in obsidian. Down the stairs. Through the screams.

And then—I heard her. A broken sob. Faint. Mine.

I tore through the final door, boot smashing the lock open and there she was.

Slumped on the floor, ropes soaked in blood. Face bruised, eye swollen, lip split. Her frame was trembling, too weak to look up.

For one breathless moment, I couldn't move. I could only stare.

Like I had just found the sun caged and bleeding.

My heart or whatever remained of it, cracked open. "Bunny," I breathed, crossing the space in a blink.

She flinched when I reached for her. And that broke me.

I fell to my knees beside her, hands shaking as I tore through the ropes. Blood coated her skin. My fingers. The floor. I didn't care.

"Don't look at me like that," I whispered, my voice raw. "It's over. I'm here now. I've got you."

She whimpered, barely conscious.

"It's me, sweetheart. It's Rhys. You're safe. No one's ever touching you again. Ever."

The last rope gave way and I caught her before she collapsed entirely, lifting her into my arms. She was so light. Too light. And her blood soaked into my shirt like a brand.

Cassian appeared in the doorway, panting, gun raised. "Rhys..."

"Clear the floor," I said without turning. "Find Beron. And bring me Eris. Alive."

Cassian nodded grimly and disappeared.

I looked down at her—her face tucked into my chest, trembling against me. My hands shook as I stroked back her hair.

"I've got you," I whispered again, kissing the crown of her head. "You're mine. You hear me? Mine."

She whimpered something I didn't catch. So I said it again. And again. Until my voice broke. Until I wasn't Rhysand the boss anymore.

I was just the man who loved her.

The car ride back was silent. Not quiet—silent. The kind of silence that screamed louder than any siren, louder than gunfire or death or rage. 

She was curled against me in the backseat, wrapped in my coat, her bruised cheek pressed to my chest. And still, she trembled.

I had my arms around her, cradling her like she was made of silk and ash, something precious, and already breaking.

Her blood was on me. So was theirs. I didn't know whose stained my skin more.

When we reached the estate, I carried her up myself—wouldn't let Azriel or Cassian near her, wouldn't let a guard so much as breathe in her direction. 

My hand never left her back as I pushed through the doors of the house, every light already on, the space warm and waiting.

But she didn't move. She didn't speak. She hadn't said a word since I found her.

I set her down gently on the velvet settee near the fireplace, careful not to jostle the split skin on her arms, or the bruises darkening like ink across her collarbone. The coat slipped from her shoulders, pooling around her like wings torn and tattered.

She sat upright, stiff and statue-still, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

I dropped to my knees in front of her. Slowly. Like she might shatter if I breathed too loudly.

Her eyes were vacant. Still wide. Still locked in that place they'd dragged her into and I hadn't been fast enough to stop it.

"Bunny," I murmured, barely audible. She flinched. My throat closed.

I looked down at my hands. They were still stained red. Dried in the cracks of my knuckles. Under my nails. I should've cleaned them. Should've made myself presentable before touching her. Before kneeling before her like some desperate penitent begging for grace.

But maybe that's exactly what I was.

"I'm sorry," I said, voice breaking around the words. "I'm so—so sorry."

No response. No movement. Just that trembling. That delicate quiver in her shoulders like she was trying to keep her body from folding in on itself.

"I wasn't fast enough," I continued, the confession falling out of me like blood. "I should've known they'd try something. I should've protected you better. I let you down. I let—fuck, I let them touch you."

Her lip quivered, but she still didn't look at me.

So I lifted a hand, slowly, giving her all the time in the world to pull away. She didn't. Not quite. Her breath stuttered as my fingertips grazed her cheek, so soft, so careful, like I was touching something holy.

Her skin was cold.

"Can I... can I hold you?" I asked, barely able to get the words out.

A beat. Then the tiniest nod.

I exhaled shakily and rose beside her, easing her into my lap like I was collecting broken pieces. My arms folded around her gently, but firmly, cradling her like glass, like a thing the world had tried to ruin, and I would never allow it to happen again.

She fit against me perfectly, even now. Her forehead dropped to my shoulder. Her hands clung to my shirt like anchors. And finally, finally—her first sound.

A sob. Small, guttural, and broken. I felt it all the way through me.

"I've got you now," I whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "No one's ever going to hurt you again. I swear it. Not while I'm breathing."

Her sobs came quietly, like she was trying to hide them. But I felt every one. Felt her cracking open in my arms like a porcelain doll too long locked in a box of silence.

I held her tighter, blood-stained hands smoothing over her back as if I could erase what they did with touch alone.

"I killed them for you," I murmured against her hair, voice ragged. "Every single one who laid a hand on you. And if there are more—if there's anyone left who thinks they can take you from me—I'll kill them too."

She didn't speak but she didn't pull away, either. That was enough.

So I sat there with her in my lap, rocking her gently in the low firelight. My blood on her skin. Her pain in my bones.

And I whispered again and again.

"You're safe now."

"You're mine."

"No one will ever touch you again."

A/n - Sooo... remember when I said she and Lucien bonded over difficult family dynamics? Yeah, turns out "difficult" in Lucien's case meant criminals. My bad x

Just sprinkled in a tiny bit more drama because I needed her to really understand what it means to step into Rhysand's world. Unfortunately, she got the full "dating a criminal" starter pack and paid the price :(

Also yes—I know Ziggy sounds like a silly name but I couldn't have my man Eris be the one laying hands on her!!

Anyways thank you for reading <33

The Ruin tag list - @queenoffeysand @sttvrdustt @wedonttalkaboutvoldemort @coeurdeveea @maltemp @sillyfreakfanparty @justtryingtosurvive02 @bosssliv5g @hyruledemigod20 @sstrohma @zoeisdreaming6 @shellsarepretty @moonlitlavenders @sherlockholmes08 @lou-diaries @acourtofbatboydreams @talesofadragon @blueeclipsepaperstudent @coffeebooksrain18 @lilah-asteria @bbontenswhhore @thisfireheart @sheblogs

[illyrianbitch]

One Summer

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: One beach house. One festival. One summer to fall in love.

Warnings: brief mentions of alcohol and recreational drugs (weed!), two friends with a past, a budding crush

Word Count: 4k

authors note: i’m excited to get this out hehe so pls ignore any mistakes/typos that i missed! 🫶🏻 happy end of summer!

Series Masterlist

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

It took you a second to register your surroundings.

You knew the house was bound to be nice. After all, Rhysand’s family was loaded. You’d seen it in pictures from previous vacations, in the ones Mor had sent you over past summers when you’d gone back home. But even then, you still hadn't prepared yourself enough. The house wasn't only large and fancy. It was cozy– lived in. And it was absolutely beautiful.

There were little touches everywhere—- knick-knacks and seashells, photo frames, and soft rugs that felt like clouds under your feet. From somewhere deeper in the house, you heard Feyre and Rhys laughing. They had arrived a few hours earlier, settling in and preparing the house for the rest of you. At least, that’s what they told you all.

You and Mor had your suspicions that their reason for such an early arrival was more about having an empty house to mess around in before the rest of you came. You could still hear Mor’s conspiratorial whisper in your ear, teasing about how Feyre and Rhys probably took advantage of the quiet to enjoy some uninterrupted time together.

"They probably wanted to get all the best spots first," Mor had joked on the drive over, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. You laughed, agreeing silently that Rhysand and Feyre's early arrival was likely more for their own pleasure than out of any noble desire to prepare the house.

From outside, the crunch of gravel under tires announced the arrival of Azriel and Cassian. You heard the low rumble of their car engine idling before it was cut off, followed by the slam of car doors and the muffled sound of laughter.

“C’mon, let me show you your room,” Mor said, placing down a few of her bags and gesturing with her perfectly manicured hand.

You followed her up a set of stairs, taking in the walls lined with art and framed photos. Each frame was unique, from sleek, modern designs to ornate, vintage styles. The artwork ranged from abstract paintings to intricate sketches— and interspersed among the art were photographs capturing various moments. It was easy to spot the ones Mor was in, her blonde hair standing in stark contrast against the raven black of Rhysand and his sister and the dark brown of Azriel and Cassian.

You stopped at one in particular, a photo of Rhys, Cassian, Azriel and Mor standing around a small, circular wooden table. You laughed.

Mor turned around at the sound, a frown on her face as her gaze flickered between you and the gallery before you.

“Oh my god,” she said, quickly backtracking a few stairs down. “Do not look at that.”

But it was too late. You leaned forward to inspect the photo more. Rhysand had braces, Cassian was sporting a terrible haircut, Azriel looked too tall for his frame, and Mor was mid-laugh, a piece of pizza hanging onto the metal outline of her own braces. You let out another laugh, cooing out a sweet Aww at your best friend.

She huffed beside you. ”I’m going to kick you out of this house if you keep staring at it.”

You flashed her a grin. “Aw, c’mon. I love it.”

Mor only gave you a blank look in response. She stayed still, raising an eyebrow impatiently as you grinned, eyes flickering between her and your newfound favorite photo. You reached into your back pocket, fingers grasping the edge of your phone. You itched to have the photo in your camera roll, to be able to send it to Mor as a joke whenever she failed to return your texts.

She registered the movement quickly, letting out a small sound of surprise.

"Absolutely not!”

Mor grabbed your arm before you managed to take a proper picture, pulling you up the stairs behind her as you laughed.

“You realize I can just take a picture later?”

”I’m taking that damn thing down,” she grumbled, “You’re enjoying it too much.”

You let her drag you along, still chuckling as you absorbed the surroundings. The house truly was a perfect blend of comfort and luxury, with wide hallways adorned with art and mementos, and an abundance of windows that flooded the space with natural light. It felt clean– dreamlike, even.

Turning a corner, Mor stopped, opening the door with a large gesture. You stepped inside, eyes widening at the open space. Sunlight poured in from the large windows and a small sliding door framed the ocean view perfectly.

”Oh my god,” you breathed. A sense of peace washed through you.

“I knew you’d love it,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Wait for the best part.”

She walked over and gently slid open the small door, your vision quickly registering the balcony connected to your room. You stepped out, the fresh ocean air hitting you immediately—bringing with it the soothing sound of waves and the tangy scent of salt. The view was breathtaking: an endlessly stretching out horizon with water sparkling under the midday sun.

You closed your eyes, reveling in all of the senses. You could almost feel the stress of the past few weeks melt away, a tangible sense of release rolling through your limbs. You didn’t need to think about grad school applications now, didn’t have to worry about buffing up your resume.

When you opened your eyes, you turned to find Mor watching you with a satisfied, giddy expression. “It’s like a little slice of paradise.”

“More than a little,” you mused as you took in the view before you. “Does everyone have a balcony?”

”Nope,” she replied, “I preferred the nicest shower. But Rhys and I figured you’d want easy access to outside for the same reasons Azriel picked his room.”

She mimicked bringing something to her lips and taking a drag.

You rolled your eyes but a laugh left your lips in spite of yourself. It took you a few seconds before her final words registered and your eyes trailed to the balcony beyond her shoulder, where another little door connected to the space.

Mor followed your movement.

”That’s Az’s room,” she clarified. “You share the balcony.”

”Oh,” you said. Mor gave you another smile. “Cool.”

She let out a small shriek of excitement, grabbing you in a quick hug. “God, I’m so excited for this summer. I get to tan, listen to some music, hang out with my favorite people and get pissed faced drunk.”

”All of your favorite things.”

Her grin grew on her red-painted lips. “Exactly.”

She paused, eyes widening as she dropped her hands from around you, taking a step back as she said, “We need to get drinks!”

Without another word she darted off, calling out for Feyre as she turned the corner and disappeared from your viewpoint.

Your gaze lingered on your open door for a moment before you turned around, walking closer to the edge of the patio. You leaned over the balcony, taking a deep, calm breath. The horizon stretched out before you, waves rolling in a rhythm that seemed to sync with your heartbeat.

You’d always loved the beach, loved the sense of peace that came with being near the ocean. Something about it felt so new— felt so refreshing and lively.

The sound of distant laughter filtered into your ear, and you easily recognized the boisterous cadence of Cassian’s voice. You followed the sound, glancing over towards the glass door of the adjacent room. Through the sliver of his room’s open curtains, you watched as Azriel dropped a bag on his bed, a small smile on his face at something said to him.

You angled your head further.

A nagging voice in the back of your mind reminded you that it might seem odd to be peering into someone else’s space, even if they were your friends. But, they were your friends, weren’t they? It wasn’t weird to be interested in what they were up to, especially when you were all sharing this space for the summer. So you pushed aside the fleeting feeling of unease, convincing yourself that you were simply being sociable and observant.

Azriel lifted his head. You blinked, quickly looking back to the view in front of you in an effort to avoid catching his gaze. You grimaced to yourself, a rush of heat flowing to your cheeks.

Smooth.

You shook your head, gently tapping the balcony railing as you turned around to head back into your room. You made sure to keep your gaze down, to fight the urge for your eyes to flicker towards Azriel’s door.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹

All of the windows in the kitchen were open, filling the space with the fresh scent of ocean breeze. You gave Rhys and Feyre a quick greeting, walking towards one of the opened back doors. The urge to explore the beach and feel the sand beneath your feet pulled at you, calling to you like a siren to a sailor, but you stayed still. The drive here had been lengthy and, as a result, your deep-seated exhaustion weighed heavy on your limbs.

“Thinking of going and looking around?” Feyre asked, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Later, definitely. I’m feeling a bit too tired right now to be in the blazing sun.”

Feyre offered you a knowing nod. “Makes sense.”

The sound of footsteps drew your attention and you turned to see Azriel and Cassian entering the kitchen. The latter's eyes immediately found yours, a grin breaking out on his lips as he walked towards you in three long strides. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into his side.

”God, I missed you,” Cassian said. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at the comment, knowing full well that you all had met up before making the drive to ensure that you had everything needed. But Cassian always had a flare for the dramatic. So, instead, you just gave him a small laugh and wrapped your arms around him in return. 

He pointed to Azriel. “He’s such a bore, dude. He wouldn’t play any games on the road.”

Your gaze flickered over to Azriel. He rolled his eyes.

“Because your games involved me removing both hands from the wheel.”

Cassian shrugged, the movement redistributing the weight of his arm around your shoulders. “So?”

”So?” Azriel retorted. He opened his mouth to say more, but with a quick scan of Cassian’s face led him to closing his mouth and offering another eye roll. Azriel then turned his attention to you, holding your gaze as he offered you a smile.

”Hey, Y/n.”

His voice was much softer than a few seconds ago, a different tone than that he had used with Cassian.

You smiled back. “Hi, Az.”

You weren’t sure what to do next, torn between wanting to give him a small hug and the presence of Cassian’s arm around you. Az held your gaze for another moment before he walked past. You took in his figure, briefly noticing the change in his attire from this morning when you’d seen both him and Cassian. His long, black pants were now replaced by black shorts, instead. Before your stare could linger, Mor entered from the opened porch door, kicking off the sand-covered shoes she wore as she stepped into the house’s threshold.

”Oh great, you’re all here,” she said, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. “Cass, are you ready to go?”

”Yup,” Cassian responded excitedly. He separated himself from you, casting a quick glance down at your form. “Wanna come?”

”Where are you guys going?”

Mor and Cassian answered simultaneously, “Liquor store.”

You raised an amused brow. “Have we become too fancy to just go to a grocery store?”

Mor shrugged. “I like my options.”

From across the kitchen, Rhys wrapped an arm around Feyre's torso, a cheeky grin on his face as he leaned forward to place his chin on her shoulder. “And yet, Mor, you always manage to return with a bottle of wine and a pack of white claws.”

Mor offered him a scowl. ”Shut it.”

”Actually,” Feyre hummed, “While you guys are out can you grab some groceries? I have a list. I can text it to you.”

Mor and Cassian exchanged a glance. “Sure, but it might take a while.”

Feyre arched an eyebrow. From beside her, Rhys rolled his eyes. “Why?”

It was Azriel who responded to her question, “Because they’re probably planning to 'taste test' everything they buy. So then they'll be sitting there and waiting it out until they can drive again."

You glanced over at him, watching as a sly smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. The hazel of his eyes were bright now, more visible with the sunlight pouring through the windows. There was a glint of amusement in them as he met your gaze.

Morrigan let out a sound of mock offense. Cassian grinned. You laughed, giving him a playful swat with your hands. It only made his grin grow further.

”I can grab it, Feyre,” you said, “Cass and Mor can go on the alcohol run alone.”

She gave you a grateful smile, but a flicker of concern furrowed her brow. “Are you sure? It’s kinda a lot for one person.”

You frowned. “How many things are we buying?”

“I figured we should make as many meals to counterbalance the amount we’re spending on drinks.”

You clicked your tongue. “Smart.”

She tossed a glance over her shoulder, meeting the studying gaze of her boyfriend. “I can go with you.”

Rhysand instantly frowned and mumbled under his breath, but you failed to catch his words as Azriel’s voice chimed in behind you.

”I can go.”

He stood next to you and you looked up at him, meeting his eyes for a fleeting second. He smiled. 

“And I can drive.”

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The list Feyre had given you was indeed a lot— and all over the place.

Az trailed after you, pushing the large shopping cart as you slowly scanned the shelves in front of you. The car ride with him had been quiet, but it was the type of quiet you often yearned for— the comfortable kind that made you feel at home. He'd opened your car door for you, a gesture so casual and natural that you hadn't fully registered it until you were sitting in his front seat, pulling your seatbelt on. For some reason, the act had yet to leave your mind. 

"What do you need?"

Azriel' braced his forearms on the cart's handle, leaning forward as he waited for your answer. Your gaze fell to the silver chain that dangled from his neck, now freed from its usual place hidden underneath his shirt.

"Y/n?"

You blinked. "Yeah?"

Azriel's brows furrowed slightly and he straightened his posture, pushing the cart closer to you. "Feyre's list," he clarified, "What's on it?"

You let out a small oh of realization, offering Azriel your phone in order for him to read off Feyre's comprehensive list of groceries. You switched places, Azriel maneuvering around the cart to look around the store. Your phone looked so strange in his hand and you suddenly regretted offering it to him instead of forwarding the text. You grimaced to yourself, mentally praying that your parents didn't message you— that no strange, unpromising alert flashed across your screen as he held it. The feeling that now flushed your body was the same cold, unrealistic panic that you felt when you traveled— when you'd go through airports and suddenly stress yourself into thinking you'd accidentally packed a live firework or a bomb.

Azriel had made it across an aisle by the time you reeled your thoughts back in. You let yourself fall behind his steps, observing him as he walked along the various cereal boxes.

There was a time where you'd believed that you and Azriel could be more than friends— back in freshman year when you'd first met. It was an instant spark, something so electric even Mor had felt it, had spent weeks making jokes about your crush. And months later you'd found yourself in that room with Azriel, inches away from his face on halloween night, lips still tasting of the fruity drink Cassian had made for you.

But nothing happened— not then, not after.

Two years had passed since and so much had changed. Not only within your life, but with Azriel himself.

He looked different now. His hair was longer— still cropped enough at the sides to show that dangling dagger earring you'd always loved— but long enough on top where his curls were on full display. He'd grown those out in the past two years, had stopped cutting his hair too short for them to show. He was tanner now, too, his golden brown skin holding an even darker sun-kissed glow— but you attributed that to the summer sun rather than the years.

It all fit him so well.

Azriel turned to face you, two large boxes of cereal in either hand. You straightened yourself, fixing your posture as hastily as a child caught watching something they shouldn't have been. If Azriel noticed anything, he didn't make any indication, opting to ask you about which cereal the others would prefer.

You both managed to switch again, Az taking his place pushing the cart as you examined the various boxes on the shelves in front of you. There were only a few more things left on Feyre's list and it felt like an internal fight to find all the items before the grocery store's white light lured you to an eternal sleep— or a well needed nap.

"You excited?"

You looked over at Azriel, meeting his hazel eyes instantly. While his face seemed neutral, you could see the hint of enjoyment that danced in his eyes, a golden-hued green that made you smile instinctively. "Yeah," you said, "It'll be a fun summer.”

Azriel made a sound akin to an appreciative, agreeable hum. The aisles felt narrower the more you walked alongside him, feeling the ghost of his touch as you brushed against him with every step.

"And for the festival?" He asked.

Your smile grew larger at this.

The festival was actually one of the things you were most excited for this summer—aside from the general premise of being with everyone, of course. Summit Pulse was three days of live music, featuring over 80 artists across multiple stages. From indie bands to electronic DJs, Summit had been a dream of yours to attend since freshman year—the same time you'd first learned that Mor and Rhys had a beach house in the same city it was hosted.

"Very," you tossed him a glance before you pulled out three boxes of instant Mac n Cheese. "And I can imagine you are too."

You were sure of it. Your shared love of music was one of the things you and Azriel had bonded about originally. You still remembered the first time you'd hung out with him outside of your Intro the Philosophy class, sitting on the couch in the apartment he shared with Cassian and Rhysand. You'd spent most of the night looking at each other's music— analyzing your saved playlists and talking about the various concerts you'd been to.

Az's smile grew, a single dimple appearing on his cheeks as the corners of his eyes crinkled. "You'd be correct," he replied. A small pause followed before he said, "I think I just need to get the energy for it."

You laughed, stopping in place to turn around and look at him. "Me too," you admitted. The exhaustion from early had started to rear its ugly head again and your legs still ached with the long car ride. You let out a small tired sigh, running a hand along your face. Azriel's eyes traced the movement.

"I am really excited,” you said, “But god, I'm so exhausted. I'm glad we have a few days for me to mentally prep."

Az raised a brow. "I can imagine. You've had quite the semester."

You titled your head in response, brows falling into a subtle, confused furrow. 

"Mor told me how hard you guys were working, that your professors weren’t very accommodating.”

You raised a single brow at his wording and the corners of Azriel’s lips twitched upwards. “Alright,” he added with an amused shake of his head. “She said your professors were assholes who needed to get laid.”

You let out a small snort at this, an unintended response that you would’ve felt embarrassed about had it been anyone but Azriel in front of you. His smile seemed to quirk up further. 

"Mor was right. It was a rough semester to say the least.” 

For more reasons than you'd been willing to let on. Yes, your coursework had gotten a lot more demanding, but it wasn't just schoolwork that tired you out. Mor and Feyre had already started their grad school applications, spending nights in the libraries making pros and cons lists for every school each of you were interested in. Their plan was to find places close enough to one another, to settle in one city and get a large apartment together. Your grad school applications had remained untouched— you had no schools in mind. No programs. No connections.

"I can also imagine your breakup didn't help with it all," Az said. His voice was quieter now, as if he was unsure of the words he was speaking. You held his gaze as he looked at you. "I'm sorry about that, by the way."

You shrugged. "I'm not."

It was the truth. Eris had been a great boyfriend, sure, but you weren't overtly heartbroken over the breakup. You’d met Eris in a Political Science class and despite your initial impression of him, he’d grown on you fast. He was a sweetheart at his core but you simply didn’t mesh as well as you once thought. The breakup was inevitable in the same way that it was amicable, mutual, and very much needed. 

Something flickered across Azriel’s face and his gaze darkened. He straightened himself, his posture now emphasizing the height he held over you. "Why?" Azriel said, voice low. "Did he do something?"

His response made your mouth go dry for a fleeting second. Azriel and Eris always had a long-standing hatred for each other that you’d never truly understood. It traced back to some events that had transpired during their high school years, this you knew, but your knowledge stopped at that. Your relationship with Eris had definitely distanced you from your friends— Mor and Azriel to be specific, but now that things were finally beginning to feel normal again, you didn’t want to ruin it. 

"No, no," you quickly clarified, offering him a reassuring smile. His shoulders seemed to relax at your answer and you swallowed as you took in his face again, gaze still entirely focused on you.

You cleared your throat before turning yourself around to examine the shelves once more with new interest. "He was a good boyfriend to me. But it wasn't going anywhere and I felt like he was distracting me from more important things."

Reaching up, you attempted to grab a box on the top shelf, recognizing it as the last of those granola bars that Mor used to hoard in her cupboard. The box remained out of reach with every stretch of your hand.

"So no more distractions for you?"

Before you could respond to his question, Azriel was behind you, leaning over you to effortlessly grab the box from the shelf. He wasn't touching you, his chest still a respectable distance away from your back, but you felt the warm presence of him on your skin all the same. Your stomach did a small flip and you found yourself releasing a breath you hadn't realized you'd sucked in.

Azriel offered the box to you. You looked up at him, gently grabbing it with pinkened cheeks. You chose your next words carefully.

"Only meaningful ones."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

summer is slowly coming to an end so i present to you.... the fluffiest lil summer romance i shall ever write!!!! this series is entirely planned out and its just #vibes. everyone thank @milswrites for pushing me to actually start this.

as usual, thank you for reading <3 and lmk if you'd like to be added to the tag list <3

one summer tag list 🫶🏻:

@velarisnightsky444

permanent tag list 🫶🏻: 

@rhysandorian @itsswritten @milswrites @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon 

@glam-targaryen @cheneyq @darkbloodsly @pit-and-the-pen @azrielsbbg

@evergreenlark @marina468 @azriels-human @panther-girl-124 @bubybubsters 

@starswholistenanddreamsanswered @feyretopia  @ninthcircleofprythian @velariscalling @azrielrot

@justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli @mrsjna @anarchiii

azriel tag list 🫶🏻:

@thisiskaylin @serrendiipty @acourtofsteelandthunder